In All The World
by Ammaren
Summary: The story of how Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tamed each other, from Naboo to Anakin's early days at the Temple. Slow-building Anakin/Obi-Wan friendship.
1. The Fountain in the Courtyard

**In All The World**

Summary: The story of how Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tamed each other, from Naboo to Anakin's early days at the Temple. Slow-building Anakin/Obi-Wan friendship.

* * *

"Just that," said the fox. "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . ." –_The Little Prince_, Antoine de St. Exupéry

* * *

**PART I: THE EMPTY PALACE**

* * *

**Chapter One: The Fountain in the Courtyard**

The palace was a sprawling complex; grand, with mosaiced walls and arches that swept up around him, so high up that Anakin felt small and insignificant in all that majesty. "There's nothing quite like it," said Sabé, and he heard the fierce pride in her voice. She ruffled his hair, her voice dropping to an almost-conspiratorial whisper. "The old kings and queens of Naboo used to add a wing or two to the palace, after their coronation. And soon enough, you have thousands and thousands of old wings and secret passages, and no one remembers them all."

"_Wizard_," he breathed, imagining it. But the thrill of adventure soon melted away; for each secret passage he imagined, he saw another empty hallway, a sort of palatial grandeur that seemed too much for him, that told him he was out of place here. And, he found himself thinking, if this was Padmé's home—if she was a Queen—why would she want anything to do with a former slave boy from dusty Tatooine?

The room they gave him was far too large; the elegant tapestries on the walls were in earthern tones and reminded him, with a sharp pang, of Shmi and of home. It had never seemed so unutterably distant from him than now; he lay down in the nest of warm blankets (had someone told them that he got easily cold?) and told himself he _wouldn't_ cry. Shmi had asked him to be strong, to not look back. It was the least he could do.

He would never have landed the fighter if it wasn't for Artoo. Racing a Podracer was one thing; flying an unfamiliar fighter another, and he knew it was mostly blind luck and Artoo that had allowed him to figure out the controls and in the middle of all that fumbling, blow up the Trade Federation Droid Control Ship. When his fighter slid to a halt in the Theed hangar, Artoo letting out a reproachful series of chirps and whistles, the cockpit seal popped open and then Anakin found himself greeted, cheered, and whooped at by a group of exuberant pilots, who proceeded to triumphantly carry him on their shoulders and paraded him all over the hangar.

"The Hero of Naboo," they were beginning to call him, and something in him _liked_ it, basked in their adultation. Day after day in Watto's shop had ground his face in the dust; reminded him that he was nothing more than a slave, easily replaced and worth less than a good droid. Not for the first time in the recent days, something in Anakin—something he could not put words to—stirred. It was the part that bade him endure as Watto's fist smashed into his face for a careless move, an expensive part broken. It was the part that bore deprivation and derogation with a stoic patience; that had spoken through his lips when he'd told Padmé, "I'm a person, and my name is Anakin."

And then, Obi-Wan Kenobi had emerged into the hangar, his expression set in a impassive mask, his eyes red-rimmed, and all Anakin could think was that he looked so _broken_, so weary, and like someone trying so very hard not to cry. Then it hit him: cradled in his arms was the limp form of Qui-Gon Jinn, the Jedi Master who had freed Anakin from slavery, the man who promised him he would be trained as a Jedi.

He was dead. Anakin knew this. Death was a reality that a slave grew numb to—but was never comfortable with. He knew from a single glance from the way Qui-Gon lay that the man was dead and he slipped from the pilot's shoulders and went over to the pair. He didn't know what he should say. Shmi, he thought all of a sudden, always had the words.

Without looking at him, Obi-Wan said, "Call a stretcher."

The hangar, Anakin realised, had fallen ominously silent. Some of the pilots had joined him; they held out their arms to receive the body. "See that he is treated with respect," Obi-Wan said, as he handed over his burden. And then, "I take it the battle has been won?"

One of the pilots—the man who had carried Anakin—nodded. "Theed is once again under the Queen's control."

Obi-Wan nodded, distracted. He only seemed to be half-listening to the pilot's words. "Good," he said, distantly. "Very good. Then I'll need to find somewhere quiet to contact the Jedi Council to inform them we've won."

He stooped down and picked up the lighter of the two discarded robes from the hangar floor, draped it loosely about his shoulders, and left. At no point did he look at Anakin. It was as if he wasn't even there.

* * *

It felt like a nightmare, only Obi-Wan knew he wasn't going to ever wake up. Only this morning, Qui-Gon had been alive, had reached out to touch his shoulder and told him that he thought he would make a great Jedi Knight. And now, Qui-Gon was dead, and the knowledge that he'd slain his Master's murderer was cold comfort.

It was his training—hard-won Jedi discipline—that held him together now, as he struggled not to crack. He found what looked like a deserted storeroom adjoining the hangar, walked into it, and closed the door quietly behind him. It was dark; he reached out blindly until he found the light switch and flicked it on.

He drew a long, slow breath to centre himself and licked his dry lips. It was, thought Obi-Wan, like pulling a sheet of mediplast off a wound: best to do it once and quickly, and to get it over with. He commed the Temple, waited patiently as his call was patched through to the Jedi High Council chambers with the help of a priority code.

"Master," he said, into the comlink, and waited to see which of the Council members was on comm duty this time. Comlinks couldn't transmit holograms, and for once, he was glad for that.

"Padawan Kenobi," came Mace Windu's stern voice, at once both reassuring in its normalcy and a painful reminder of what had happened. An icy knife that swept through Obi-Wan's chest. Was he going to be reassigned to another Master? The Council had insisted he was not ready to be a Jedi Knight. And how was he going to live with, train with, to swear to obey and honour another Jedi Master—whoever it was—whose only fault was that they weren't Qui-Gon Jinn? He realised he'd drifted off in his thoughts as Mace Windu repeated, impatiently, "Padawan Kenobi, report."

"The blockade has been broken," he said. "Queen Amidala has managed to regain control of Naboo. And we encountered the Sith Lord my Master spoke of. I killed him." And then, belatedly, "I regret to report that Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn has fallen in battle."

There was silence; nothing more than the crackle of comm static, and for a while, Obi-Wan had begun to wonder if he'd lost connection to Coruscant when Mace Windu finally replied. "How?"

"The Sith Lord killed him," Obi-Wan said. "He was…dangerous, and highly-skilled in the Force and in lightsaber combat. He used an old model of lightsaber—a two-bladed version, and he fought with extreme aggression."

Mace Windu said, "So you support your Master's report that this was a Sith Lord."

"I do."

There was another silence; shorter, this time, as if Mace Windu was conferring, his voice hushed, with someone else. Or perhaps he was simply coming to a decision: the best he could. "Under the current circumstances," he said, "I feel it best that the Council sends representatives to Naboo, to assess the situation for ourselves." He said it kindly, but it stung all the same. "For the moment, as the only Jedi remaining on Naboo, you are to consider yourself the Order's representative. As such, please arrange for the Jedi funeral and cremation of Qui-Gon Jinn."

Obi-Wan swallowed. There seemed, he thought absently, to be a tight lump in his throat that stubbornly refused to go away. If he relaxed his focus, it would overwhelm him. "Yes, Master Windu."

But Mace Windu wasn't finished. "Although the blockade has been lifted, your assignment to protect Queen Amidala of Naboo still stands."

"I understand, Master Windu."

More gently, Mace Windu said, "He was my friend. For all we fought."

Obi-Wan didn't know what he could say in response to that; he choked out something that might've been thanks or acknowledgement of that admission from the stern Jedi Master.

At last, Mace Windu sighed. "May the Force be with you, Kenobi."

"May the Force be with you, Master." Obi-Wan murmured, and switched off the comlink. He allowed himself the luxury of burying his head in his hands for several long moments, breathing, trying to gain control of the large empty pit that had somehow opened up in his chest, until he felt like facing the world and all its responsibilities again.

* * *

Anakin gave up trying to sleep.

There was a consistent murmur in the background that kept distracting him the moment he reached the state of exhausted blankness that bordered sleep, dragging him back into grudging wakefulness. He stood up and padded barefoot across the room, wincing at the cold marble of the floor. The sound was coming from the balcony. They'd locked the access door, but Anakin had been playing with electronic locks since he was three. It was child's play to bypass the lock. The glass access door slid open at his touch, and he stepped out onto the balcony.

Carefully, he gazed down, peering through the wrought iron grilles of the balcony. He barely came up to the top of the rail. Whoever it was in charge of things had placed him in the room overlooking a wide, open courtyard, lined with trees. The night breeze brought scents Anakin couldn't recognise, and he wondered if Sabé or Padmé knew what they were. They probably would, he thought. Padmé was the sort of Queen who'd be good at everything, who'd know everything in her domain. He didn't know how he knew that, just that it was true.

In the centre of the tiled courtyard stood the culprit: a small fountain, spraying shimmering droplets of water in the moonlit night. It had been the murmuring of the fountain that had kept him from sleep; that frustration, now, was overwhelmed with delight. Tatooine was a desert planet; dusty, with the sand finding its way into anything and everything. He'd had to remember he didn't need to shake the sand from his shoes when he put them on. And water was everywhere here: it wasn't rationed, it wasn't expensive, and people did all sorts of strange things with it (wasteful, said the part of him that remembered being a slave) like make fountains that murmured at all hours of the night, water running over cool, coloured tiles to make pretty displays.

Since he couldn't sleep, and he wasn't about to head down the hallway to where Obi-Wan's room was, for all they'd told him that Obi-Wan was there, as if Obi-Wan was Qui-Gon and supposed to take care of him, Anakin peered carefully at his balcony. There was, he noticed, something gleaming in the darkness, and closer inspection proved it to be a drain pipe. Without pausing to think, he cautiously clambered over the edge of the balcony and clung to the drain pipe. It was cool and slick in his hands and he bit back a Huttese curse, one of Watto's favourites.

He _did_ want to see the fountain close-up, and so Anakin bore with it and patiently shimmied down the drain pipe, dropping the last few inches to the paved ground. He scraped his hands a little but ignored that, running over to the murmuring fountain. The water ran over his scraped hands, and it was cool and slightly painful; but altogether a strange and unfamiliar feeling. It seemed, he thought, to be the kind of thing he could've watched for _hours_, and Shmi always had difficulty making him stay still. There was something hypnotic about the feel of water pouring through his hands, watching it wash over the coloured tiles of the courtyard, murmuring over smooth, polished black-and-white stones arranged in a pattern Anakin couldn't quite make out.

He yelped as a cloaked figure he hadn't noticed emerged from the courtyard shadows and said, in a wry voice, "Couldn't sleep?"

"Bantha poodoo!" Anakin blurted out, and then regretted it. "What are you doing here?"

"My pardon for startling you." The figure cast down his hood, and the tired, cloudy blue-grey eyes of Obi-Wan Kenobi glanced at him. There were dark smudges under his eyes. "I was drawn, as you were, to the fountain." He hesitated before adding, "I was hoping to meditate here."

"What's that?"

He almost bit his tongue as he saw something flicker through Obi-Wan's eyes; cold, shuttered, and incredibly distant. He was about to trudge back to his room, the moment ruined, when Obi-Wan heaved a sigh, and said, "Meditation is the source of a Jedi's power."

"Mister Qui-Gon said it was the Force that gave a Jedi power," Anakin replied, cautiously.

Obi-Wan stood very still. He could've been one of the marble statues in the palace, Anakin thought, too grand to touch, too much stone; the human worn away by the sharp lines of the sculptor's tools. "He wasn't wrong," he said, at last. "I misspoke. Our connection to the Force is the source of our strength. But such a connection can be easily…clouded, disrupted, for the want of a better word." He bent down, and picked up a handful of dust, and threw it into the running fountain water, before Anakin could protest.

"Why did you do that?" Anakin exclaimed, but Obi-Wan said, "Look."

For a moment, the fountain water was clouded, murky, and then as more water spilled out, it cleared up again, regaining the pellucid clarity that he had been admiring in the moonlight. "Fear, anger and hatred," Obi-Wan said, "Are like the handful of dust. They cloud your connection to the Force." He closed his eyes, for a moment, and Anakin thought: _grief, too_, though the older man hadn't mentioned it. "Meditation opens you to the Force, invites it in. It's like the fountain continuously pouring fresh, clean water out, washing away the dust."

"So the Force washes away your anger?"

Obi-Wan considered it. "Perhaps the analogy is imperfect," he said. "As all analogies are. The Force can help you wash away your anger, but only if you allow it."

"And grief?" Anakin asked, before he could think the better of it.

It was so quiet, he thought. Beneath the murmur of the fountain, he heard Obi-Wan's slow, release of breath. "Perhaps," said the Jedi. "Or perhaps only time can do that."

_Mum_, the thought came, driving a splinter of pain through him. He didn't know if he wanted to let go, for the thought of her to come one day without the accompanying pain. Wouldn't that be the final betrayal?

There wasn't anything more that could be said, so instead, Anakin shyly reached out, and took Obi-Wan's hand. He felt the Jedi pull away from him almost instantly, but then Obi-Wan stopped, caught his hand, and flipped it over, revealing where he'd scraped his hands against the paving stones.

"You're hurt," Obi-Wan said.

"Just scraped it," Anakin replied, trying to pull away.

Obi-Wan sighed. "Boys," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "It's always 'just a scrape'. I suppose you scraped it climbing down that drainpipe."

Anakin blinked. "You saw me?"

"No," Obi-Wan admitted. "But I made it a point to check the points of entry and exit to this area." He added, a beat later, "I just didn't expect you to climb down the drainpipe. They _did_ tell me the balcony had been locked."

"It was locked," Anakin felt compelled to defend the people in charge of palace housing. "They just didn't use a good one."

"So you bypassed the lock," Obi-Wan surmised. "Why am I not surprised?" Despite his words, he reached out and took Anakin's other hand, held it under the running water of the fountain. "Either way, boy, you may consider this 'just a scrape', but we're going to get it cleaned and bandaged. You don't know what's on all of that," he gestured disdainfully at the drainpipe and the paving stones.

"My name is Anakin."

"I know that," Obi-Wan muttered, not unhappily. He reached into one of the many pouches on his utility belt and produced a capsule, which he tore open with his teeth. Anakin watched, fascinated, as Obi-Wan proceeded to sprinkle the contents of the capsule—a thick, viscuous and translucent gel that Obi-Wan curtly identified as 'bacta' on his scrapes and then shook his head as he considered them. "You nearly took the skin off your hands, b—Anakin."

Anakin shrugged. "I've had worse," he said, feeling self-conscious under the Jedi's regard.

"I don't doubt you've had," came the dry reply. "Now, I could wrap it up in a bandage, and give your admirers something to coo over tomorrow. Or we can wait here for the bacta to dry so you won't be smearing bacta all over the Queen's palace. Which will it be?"

Anakin bristled at the dismissive way Obi-Wan had spoken of his 'admirers' (they _weren't_, he thought, annoyed) but said, "I'll wait."

"Good," said Obi-Wan.

As the bacta dried on Anakin's hands, replacing the stinging pain with a cool, numbing feeling that wasn't exactly unpleasant, the silence that returned was an awkward silence; far from companionable.

"It's dried," Obi-Wan spoke up, then, after a cursory examination of Anakin's hands. "Off with you, now."

Anakin trudged away. The fountain _had_ been beautiful, he thought, and maybe he would sleep better now, even with the irritating murmur in the background. But Obi-Wan had a parting shot for him. "Anakin?"

He mumbled acknowledgement.

"Next time, use the stairs."

* * *

Obi-Wan tried to meditate. First, he contemplated the fountain, and tried to use the murmuring of the water over the tiles and stones as an invitation to move deeper into the self, to open himself up to the Force. The Force washed over him, arid and fetid like the breath of the tattooed Sith Lord on his cheek. He gave that up as a lost cause, eventually. And then he tried kneeling before the fountain, assuming the unorthodox position that Qui-Gon had favoured, had trained his Padawan to meditate in.

He found little success that way, either. And finally, Obi-Wan sat cross-legged, in the most basic meditation position that Master Yoda always taught all younglings, and breathed and tried to sift through his emotions, to slowly breathe them out one by one.

They shifted but clogged up his head and his heart, and he couldn't seem to budge them. He thought of the dust, stirred about in the fountain, and then washed away, but the anger and the hatred and the grief remained, tightly-wound into his being, and he didn't have the strength to get rid of them.

_Perhaps the analogy is imperfect,_ he had told Anakin.

"The Jedi," Qui-Gon had said, "Is like this stream." Obi-Wan was kneeling obediently by his Master; a part of him, grieving, older, knew this was a dream, a memory, nothing more, but this Obi-Wan was barely thirteen, had yet to stop fidgeting with his new Padawan braid.

There was nothing unusual about the stream, except that they weren't in one of the meditation rooms, or in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Today, Qui-Gon had taken him someplace else, to a wing of the Temple that Obi-Wan had barely seen, within the housing spire, and into a disused room somewhere between the Knight's dormitory and the senior students' dormitory.

He couldn't help but feel as though he was intruding, but Qui-Gon had firmly led him into what Obi-Wan was beginning to realise was a conservatory. The stencilled plaque by the access panel named this the Memory Garden, but he swallowed his questions. He was still too newly Qui-Gon's Padawan to feel comfortable about asking.

He realised Qui-Gon was waiting for some form of reaction from him, and so he nodded.

Satisfied, Qui-Gon continued. "Understand this, Padawan." He reached out and scooped a handful of dirt and casually dumped it into the stream.

"Master!" Obi-Wan protested, and then quickly bit his lip. _It isn't your place to question your Master,_ he thought.

"Watch," Qui-Gon said, sitting back on his haunches. Obi-Wan peered into the stream.

"It's all ruined now," he murmured, watching as the swirling handful of dirt clouded the limpid beauty of the stream, turned the water murky.

"Watch," Qui-Gon repeated, implacable.

Obi-Wan obeyed. He watched as the dirt was washed out as the water fed into the stream, and eventually, there was no sign that his Master had thrown a handful of dirt into that stream. "Fear, anger, hatred," Qui-Gon said. "They are as the handful of dirt in the stream. They can cloud your connection to the Force, Padawan, if you let them."

"And the new water?"

"The Force itself," Qui-Gon explained. "Opening yourself to the Force allows the Force to reach into you, to help you cleanse yourself of the dirt." His blue gaze was steady, willing Obi-Wan to understand. "You are the stream," he repeated. "If I throw a stone into the stream, what happens?"

Puzzled, Obi-Wan replied, "The water flows over the stone."

"And if I throw a very big stone?"

Obi-Wan thought about it. "The water is obstructed," he said, beginning to see. "It can't flow, so it piles up before the stone, like a dam."

"You are the stream," Qui-Gon said, for the final time. "You can be a stream with stones in it, so the Force can't flow in you. Or you can be a clear stream, through which the Force can flow, washing out the dirt." Deliberately, he dipped his hands into the water, washing off the last traces of the dirt that clung to them. "This is your first lesson, Padawan. Which are you going to be?"

* * *

"Master Jedi?"

Obi-Wan blinked, realised he had dozed off. It was a new first, he thought, disgruntled. He hadn't fallen asleep while trying to meditate since he was sixteen, and now, his body felt stiff. Had he fallen asleep by the fountain all night?

The sky was beginning to grow light; streaks of scarlet stained the clouds. He wondered how long it would take before he stopped seeing the bloodshine of the Sith's lightsaber in the clouds at sunrise.

"Yes?" he croaked. His throat was dry; he tried to clear it, and with a muttered apology, drank some of the water from the fountain. It was cool and slipped down his throat like soft rain. "What is it?"

The man who had spoken to him was unfamiliar, but wore the uniform of palace security. "Captain Panaka sends his compliments and would like to know if you could speak to him right away, Master Jedi."

"Jedi Kenobi," Obi-Wan corrected. It had been funny, once, to listen to people refer to him as 'Master Jedi'. But that Obi-Wan Kenobi had had a Master, had not killed a Sith Lord, had not felt laughter die in him. He stood up, stretching out stiff muscles. "Will you take me to him, then?" He made sure Qui-Gon's lightsaber was secured to his belt with a faint pang. In the Force, he could still sense echoes of his Master's presence, as if some trace of Qui-Gon's large hands had imprinted themselves onto the hilt after decades of use.

The palace guardsman nodded. "At once, M—Jedi Kenobi," he said, and Obi-Wan caught the quick correction.

He smiled at the man; a gesture that felt odd and stretched. "Lead on, then."

* * *

The guardsman led him down a series of twisting and winding corridors. Obi-Wan frowned and resolved to study the blueprints of the palace at length when he had the time. It seemed to him that such an arrangement was going to be a security nightmare for anyone tasked with protecting the Queen, as he currently was.

_Do not forget, Padawan; you have resources at hand. It is no shame to ask for help_. That admonition came in Qui-Gon's voice; Obi-Wan ground his teeth together. _Yes, Master,_ he thought.

Captain Panaka was in charge of the Queen's security, and he had spent years protecting the rulers of Naboo in their palace. No doubt the Captain would be able to help him with the unfamiliar layout of the palace, perhaps by providing a guide.

For now, Obi-Wan contented himself with memorising the passages he was led through, noting tiny distinguishing details and fixing them in his memory. In any event, the guardsman sent to take him to Captain Panaka remained silent, and Obi-Wan preferred it that way.

Finally, they reached the annex that seemed to be serving as the headquarters of the royal guard. The guardsman knocked on the heavy wooden door, and then motioned for Obi-Wan to precede him. Captain Panaka, looking somewhat worse for the wear, glanced up from a pile of reports, with an expression of surprise. "Master Jedi," he said. "What brings you here?"

Obi-Wan frowned. "You sent a guardsman to inform me you wanted to speak with me immediately," he said.

His suspicions peaked as the Force screamed a warning. He was whirling around, hand going to his Master's lightsaber.

The door slammed shut with a solid _thud_, before Obi-Wan could think to do anything about it. He reached into the Force, tried to pry the door open but it held fast. How? He didn't think there were bolts on the outside of the door.

Captain Panaka was on his feet at once, reports forgotten, his hand going to a blaster strapped to his thigh. "An assassin," he growled.

In the Force, Obi-Wan said, unsurprised, "He's improvised an explosive device. He's trying to blow the two of us up."

* * *

_A/N: This is the beginning_—_a bit of a teaser, really_—_of a new long fic I'm working on. I can't guarantee I won't go back and revise some of this. A quick note for all readers_—_I've never watched the Clone Wars, and I've deliberately chosen to play a little with the timeline established by Jude Watson, so if you're expecting me to obey canon in either of these areas, this isn't the right fic. I've chosen to take the movies as the key authority when writing this fic, and it'll show in places._

_So why read this fic? Read it if you like it. Read it if you want to see Anakin/Obi-Wan friendship that doesn't immediately spill over into them being a proper family. Read it if you want a fic that breaks_—_a little deliberately_—_from some of the conventions used in Old Jedi Order fics. And read this fic if you want a fic that takes its time, but gets to the heartwarming, with a side-dose of action._

_And if you really like it, maybe drop me a review. I'd appreciate it._

_-Ammar._


	2. The Storyteller and the Boy

**In All The World**

Summary: The story of how Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tamed each other, from Naboo to Anakin's early days at the Temple. Slow-building Anakin/Obi-Wan friendship.

* * *

**Chapter Two: The Storyteller and the Boy**

Obi-Wan thought quickly. The Force had warned him that there was danger _present_, to the two of them, and the only answer to why the room had been sealed off was that the assassin was attempting to kill them with an explosive device. He drew on the Force and smashed a powerful Force shove into the door. Some of the wood cracked but it held firm.

Someone grabbed his shoulder. "Stop," Panaka ordered him. He held some device in his hand; the indicator lights were blinking. "Whoever it was, he's activated palace security lockdown. There's a thick blast-shielded durasteel grille outside the door, now. You'll take too much time to cut through that, even with that lightsaber."

Obi-Wan blew out an exasperated breath and nodded crisply. "Understood." He glanced around. The danger was present, though he couldn't tell where the detonator was; the only consolation he had was that if they weren't yet dead, the detonator was likely on a timer.

"How thick is the floor?"

Panaka shrugged. "There are passages below the palace, but here, it's solid rock." At Obi-Wan's disgruntled expression, he said, "Security reasons."

"Well," Obi-Wan muttered, deciding to keep the invective for a time they weren't under so much pressure. "The walls? The ceiling?"

"Walls are reinforced," Panaka said. "The ceiling's…" he hesitated, thinking. "Opens up into one of the receiving rooms," he said, at last. "The floor's not really marble—just plaster painted to look like marble."

"Excellent," Obi-Wan said, leaping onto Panaka's desk and drawing Qui-Gon's lightsaber, scattering reports in his wake. His Master's lightsaber blazed to life in his hands, a fierce, lively green and he began cutting a hole in the ceiling.

Bits of plaster and wood and dust rained down, caking both of them.

"Master Jedi?" Panaka asked.

Obi-Wan let out a grunt of acknowledgement.

"_Hurry_."

Obi-Wan did not dignify that with a response as he kept cutting. The lightsaber sliced through the material easily; far easier than the blast-shielded doors on that Trade Federation ship, he couldn't help thinking, and finally he was done and he peered up at a distant ceiling. "Can you make it?" He asked Panaka, who looked dubiously up at the hole.

"I can try," came the reply, and Obi-Wan shook his head.

"I'll go first, then," he said. "I've got a length of fibrecord—I'll throw it down to you and you can make the climb then."

Panaka nodded; a lesser man might've been more grudging about acknowledging that difficulty, Obi-Wan thought. He accessed the Force and leaped, pushing off against the desk. Empowered by the Force, he shot up through the hole he'd cut in the ceiling, and managed to land—hard—on the painted-plaster flooring of what Panaka had correctly identified as one of the palace's receiving rooms.

He rolled to his feet, ignoring the pain in his side, and produced the fibrecord from his utility belt and threw it down to the waiting Captain, holding it as steady as he could. He should've tied it to something; instead, Obi-Wan drew on the Force to brace himself, making himself unmoveable.

Panaka swarmed up the rope, climbing hand over hand with the dexterity of a younger man. Still, the Force screamed at Obi-Wan to _hurry_ and so he began pulling on the rope at the same time. It was difficult, and the rope threatened to burn his hands, but he knew it was imperative that Panaka escape the death trap that the office had become.

Panaka was just clambering over the lip of the hole when the office below went up in a storm of flame and flying duracrete. Obi-Wan gave up all discretion and _hauled_, both with his hands and with the Force. Panaka slammed into him; they were pelted with chunks of wood as the floor trembled and the plaster threatened to give.

Finally, Panaka grumbled, "Life wasn't this exciting when you Jedi weren't around."

He pulled away, checking himself. A splinter of wood had become lodged in his calf; Obi-Wan said, "You need medical attention."

"Your shoulders are all covered in dust and plaster," came the reply. "It'll keep. Come."

* * *

The first thing was to establish that no similar attempt had been made on the life of the Queen. Obi-Wan stretched out with the Force as they ran, attempting to ascertain that, but there was no telling for sure. _Check, always check_, and this time, it wasn't Qui-Gon's voice telling him but his own fears. Panaka was barking orders into his comlink, barely winded, as though he wasn't injured as he ran down corridor after corridor, commanding all active members of the royal guard to him, while asking some members of palace security under a Lieutenant Voss to secure the destroyed office and to be on the lookout for a rogue member of the guard.

Listening, Obi-Wan said, quietly, "If he is in fact a guardsman at all."

"Uniforms are not that difficult to come by," Panaka agreed, his eyes narrowed. "But then, the question is, who didn't report in?" He added that to the series of commands he'd issued, asking the guards to check against the duty rolls and to report any missing to him.

By the time they reached the office which handled the security and monitoring systems in the palace, it was clear that the mobilised members of palace security had most things under control. They were clustering before a security grille, attempting to break it down and enter the office, but parted the moment Panaka and Obi-Wan strode up to join them.

"Jedi Kenobi," Panaka said. "If you would?"

Lips pursed, Obi-Wan nodded. He retrieved Qui-Gon's lightsaber and flicked it into humming life. "Allow me," he said, and he moved up to the grille and plunged the lightsaber through it. Panaka had been right: the security grille was blast-shielded, meaning that it took his lightsaber several long, slow moments before the metal began to glow a fiery orange-yellow with heat. He sliced slowly and gradually through the grille, and as the metal bars clanged to the flooring, searing it, he reared back and kicked the door open.

Sometimes, old ways worked best, he thought he could hear Qui-Gon say, bemused. Qui-Gon had done that once, when Obi-Wan had tried to cut his way through just such a wooden door.

Grief reared its ugly head all over again, but this time, he fended it off with the focus needed for the task at hand. He went first, lightsaber sweeping up to deflect any incoming blaster bolts. He caught the first, batted it into the wood of the door, and then his second swing slashed the blaster from the man's hand.

The guardsman—only Obi-Wan suspected he wasn't actually a guardsman—looked at him, expressionless. "You are under arrest," Obi-Wan informed him.

Death might have been an option. He saw the guardsman consider it, and then back away from that edge. The guardsman raised his empty hands. The melted pieces of the blaster on the floor still glowed with heat. "Well, Master Jedi," he said, ironically, "That certainly seems to be the only viable option."

A hand at his back, tapping his shoulder, passing him a set of energy cuffs. Obi-Wan stepped in, grabbing the man by the collar of his uniform. Then, he sheathed the lightsaber and cuffed him, swiftly.

"Captain," he called out. "He's all yours now."

* * *

Anakin had been left, mostly, to his own devices. By the time he'd woken up, he noticed that a platter had been left in his room, and frowned at it. It was another of those beautiful dishes, he thought glumly. Padmé certainly didn't seem to lack for finery. There was a simple pattern embossed into the edge of the dish, repeating itself, and he tried to get a better glimpse of it. It was a complex knot, that was the best Anakin could make of it, and he wondered if it had any meaning to Padmé's people.

There was cheese on the platter—Anakin recognised those, at least, and he carefully picked up a piece and shoved it into his mouth. "_Wizard_," he muttered as he chewed. It was crusted with salt and fine herbs and it tasted rich and smooth and creamy. They'd never had food as fine on Tatooine.

The fruit, he left alone. They were bright coloured, and none of them familiar at all. He didn't know what to make of them. Shmi, he thought, trying to fight away the tears that welled up in his eyes. What would she make of these? She'd know what these fruit were, how they were best prepared, and she'd love to be able to taste these fine cheeses…

He wasn't going to cry about cheese, Anakin told himself. He _wasn't_.

Instead, he nibbled at a bun. It was warm and flaky, slathered with butter, but not greasy, and he enjoyed every single bite. When he was done, he thought about what he was going to do. He padded over to the door and peered out into the hallway.

It was empty. There was no sign of anyone there.

There was Obi-Wan, he remembered. The people who'd put him in this wing had told him that Obi-Wan's room was just down the hallway, as if they expected him to be in Obi-Wan's care. And perhaps he was. What did he know?

Obi-Wan hadn't said anything about that. All Anakin knew was that Qui-Gon said he'd take care of him, that he was going to be a Jedi, but now Qui-Gon was gone, and he didn't know what was going to become of him, and Obi-Wan wasn't telling him anything.

He wondered if he could see Padmé. She had to be busy, he thought, sadly. Everyone was telling him that there the Trade Federation had left a huge mess and the Queen was in the centre of all of that, trying to clean things up. He remembered the time he'd knocked over a bottle of juma syrup on the counter and tried to hide it from his mum and then the seething morass of ants that had attracted. Padmé was just doing what he hadn't, he told himself. She was cleaning up the juma syrup before all the ants came.

If only he wouldn't feel so…lost. As if he'd been cut off from everything that mattered to him, with no way of finding his way back.

He kicked out at the polished marble of the floor, and decided he was going to go and find the workshop. _There has to be one_, Anakin thought. _All those ships need someone to fix 'em_. It was something to do; working with his hands was his refuge, when even the comforts of home and his mother's love weren't enough of a bulwark against the harsh realities of life as a slave on Tatooine.

Now, it was the last thread, he imagined, stretching out across space and time, connecting him to his old life.

* * *

"Assassins," Queen Amidala said, thoughtfully. "But they made no attempt on me."

"No, your Highness," Obi-Wan said. "We're trying to ascertain the extent of the infiltration at the moment, but it seems that the attack was directed primarily against Captain Panaka and myself." He glanced over at the Captain of the Queen's security, who had, at least, consented to have a medic pull out the splinter from his calf and treat the wound. "It is possible they wanted to get rid of us so they could have a clear shot at you. But much of the situation remains unclear."

The Captain said, almost spitting out the words, "Collaborators."

Amidala said, her fingers tapping absently against the polished surface of her throne, "A serious charge."

"We don't have very much to go on," Obi-Wan said, regretfully. He exchanged another long glance with Captain Panaka. "One of the perpetrators has fled; the other has been apprehended and is currently in the custody of palace security. He hasn't yet yielded any useful information."

"Your Highness," Captain Panaka said, "I prefer to work under the assumption that this attack was part of a conspiracy detected at you. It seems the only way to make sense of what happened."

"I don't disagree," Amidala replied. "The Trade Federation's attempt to seize control of Naboo was not entirely external. They knew too much; shortcuts through Theed, holes in our defenses…things they couldn't have known, if it wasn't for an information leak."

"Do you have any suspicions, your Highness?" Obi-Wan wanted to know.

Despite the ceremonial face-paint, she was frowning. "Since you asked—I _suspect_, though I cannot prove this—that the Trade Federation attempted to cut a deal with some of the more disenchanted legislators here."

Panaka whistled. "The Five?" he wanted to know.

Amidala dipped her head in a shallow nod of acknowledgement. "The Five," she repeated. "Yes. But you must understand, I cannot prove this. And I cannot order an investigation—no matter how discreet—based on the suspicions of a single woman, no matter how powerful. Not without reason for such a suspicion. That it would be logical for the Federation to cut such a deal does not imply that they did."

"Are there political reasons as well, your Highness?" Obi-Wan ventured.

Now she did smile. "There always are," Amidala admitted. "The Five are…a coalition of powerful families, with their hands deep in all channels of power on Naboo. The legislature. Trade. Industry. Banking. The public service. Even holiday resorts," that last was added with a trace of wry humour. "Anything that brushes against power or wealth, and you'll find the Five dipping their fingers into it."

"And so you suspect," Obi-Wan said, keeping his voice politely neutral, "That the Five are involved in this?"

Amidala said, "I cannot be sure." Her voice was steel. "I have said, Master Jedi, that I do not have enough evidence. I cannot speak as the Queen of Naboo in this."

He gave a clipped nod. "I understand, your Highness."

"Having said that," Amidala continued, "Tharé the Wise help me—yes. I _feel_," she emphasised that word, "That they are involved, somehow. My predecessor had passed laws curtailing the power of the Five. He meant to reduce their power, bit by slow bit." Her lips twisted in a wry smile. "He died, of course. An untimely end, most unfortunate. And there was no sign of foul play. Captain Panaka investigated that most assiduously."

He glanced at the man, who nodded confirmation.

"Absence of evidence is not proof of absence," Amidala said. "I know this. But it is convenient that shortly after, a fourteen year old girl, no matter how talented, gets elected to assume the empty Monarchy. It is," she added, without any indication of how the self-deprecation rode on her, "Even more convenient that shortly after, the Trade Federation attempts to pressure Naboo into becoming nothing more than an outpost _owned_ by the Federation. A move which would override attempts to curb the power of privilege on Naboo—and by extension, the power of the Five."

"Vultures gather at the perception of weakness," Obi-Wan offered.

"I know this," Amidala retorted. "Naboo is a small planet; we have little to offer. But I am not the youngest Queen to assume the Monarchy, Jedi Kenobi, and I do not suspect I will be the last. Perhaps those were kinder times, but…" her voice trailed off. "If your investigation now leads you in the direction of the Five, then so be it."

Carefully, Obi-Wan said, "You must remember what my Master told you last morning, your Highness."

She did not blink. "Pray refresh our memory, Jedi Kenobi."

"He said," Obi-Wan said, drawing his hands in front of him, "'Remember that we are not here to fight war for you, Your Highness. We are charged with your protection.'" He let his hands drop; spread them out in a polite diplomat's stance. "The Council has informed me I continue to be assigned to your protection, your Highness. But it may very well exceed my mandate to investigate the Five."

Quietly, Captain Panaka said, reproachfully, "You should've told me. I would've detailed some discreet men to begin an investigation."

"That I would not do," Amidala said, to him, "There must be a limit to executive power, Captain, and if I license the examination of everyone's private lives so long as they seem odious enough and arouse my suspicion without there being a shred of evidence for it…" she shrugged. "The road to tyranny has seldom been more temptingly paved." She looked at both of them. "Do you know what I promised myself on the day of my coronation?"

A sudden shift; Obi-Wan blinked. A glance over at Panaka indicated that the man was just as puzzled. "Your Highness?" he prompted.

"I promised myself that I would not abuse the power of the throne," Amidala said, simply. "Not now, not ever. I promised myself that I would leave after me a Naboo with stronger constitutional restraints on royal power than before. None of that will happen if a Queen is so willing to establish precedents for royal intervention."

Obi-Wan exhaled. There was only so much he could do, he thought regretfully. He had to follow the example his Master had set out; he clung to that, in the emptiness of the throne room, of the royal palace, and tried not to think about the echoing hollow space in his chest.

"I cannot promise to investigate," he said gracefully, "As that is not implied by my mandate. However," he added, raising a cautious hand, "When I contacted the Jedi Council yesterday, I was informed that due to the severity of the situation, the Council will be sending representatives to Naboo. If the situation permits, I will be able to look into things."

It was the best offer he could give her, he thought. Amidala gave a regal nod. "I understand," she said, even though Panaka was shaking his head. "That will have to suffice."

* * *

Panaka drew him up short outside the throne room. "She needs you," the man said.

Stiffly, Obi-Wan said, "I am a Jedi. My allegiances lie with my Order."

"Your Order," snapped Panaka, "Is sworn to help. You are _assigned_ to protect her. Is that not so?"

"It is," Obi-Wan replied, "But—"

"They tried to kill you," Panaka said, stabbing a finger at Obi-Wan's chest, for emphasis. "They tried to kill _me_, because they knew that if both of us were dead, they'd get a clean run at her. Don't tell me you're going to make your job—and mine—harder by just sitting around and waiting for them to come at her. Because my men and I can protect her, but _you_ can find out why they're killing her, without stirring any of them up the way a visit from the royal guard would. Because you're a Jedi, and Jedi don't take sides. Everyone knows that—it's why your Order is so trusted. Guardians of peace and justice, they call you. You protect people, and maybe you dirty those hands to do it, but everyone knows that if you get a Jedi, the truth will come out. No matter who it hurts."

It was the most Obi-Wan had ever heard from the man.

"So don't talk about mandates," Panaka continued, harshly. "Because they're not worth spit if she dies on our watch."

Obi-Wan knocked the man's hand away. Evenly, he said, "Then answer me this, Captain. If they were trying for her, why didn't they?"

Panaka's eyes narrowed. "You're saying there's another reason they went for us."

"Can you think of why they didn't kill her?" Obi-Wan countered. "Security will be tightened after this. If we were practice for the inevitable strike, then they threw away far too many pieces to no evident purpose. They'd have been better off locking us in the office and then planting a bomb in the throne room, for all the good we could've done."

Panaka swore. He demanded, "Why didn't you tell her that?"

"What good would it have done?" Obi-Wan wanted to know. "It was the truth, from a certain point of view. With us out of the way, they could've done anything they liked to the Queen. Now," his expression grew grim, "They'll have to get through us, first."

* * *

Anakin had to admit it: he was lost. He thought he remembered the passageway to the hangar, but discovered that the corridors of the palace seemed to snake and twine into each other, and it wasn't until he discovered that he'd been walking this same section at least five or six times that he admitted defeat. He was thoroughly _lost_ and didn't have any idea where he was.

Sabé hadn't been kidding when she'd talked about the thousands of secret passages, he thought. His clothing was thoroughly smeared with dust now. He'd gone through at least two of those passages in the hopes that they'd lead him back to somewhere familiar. No chance of that, now.

Glumly, he wondered how long it would take for them to realise he was missing. He didn't have a comlink, and even if they found out he was missing, they'd have to find him, somehow. He imagined it would be Padmé, perhaps, or one of the people who worked at the palace. Maybe the people who left behind the platter of cheese and fruit and bread in his room. His stomach chose that moment to growl.

"You lost, sonny?"

Anakin blinked. There was an old man in the corridor, dark-eyed, his skin tanned from the sun. "Yeah," he said, finding his voice. "I think I am. Do you work here?"

"You could say that," the man replied. For some reason, he seemed to find what Anakin said funny. "I'm a storyteller."

"I like stories," Anakin said. "I met a spacer once who told me about the angels singing on the moons of Iego."

"The angels on the moons of Iego," repeated the storyteller. "It's an old story, and a good one." He smiled, and for some reason, Anakin thought it was a sad smile. "It's not told very often anymore; especially not in these parts. You come from a distant planet, don't you?"

"I'm from Tatooine," Anakin replied, "In the Outer Rim."

"There are many stories from Tatooine," said the storyteller. "I could tell you about the Kind Hunter and the Lost Bantha, the Lonely Dragon…or even," and his smile grew almost sly, "About the Son of the Suns."

"I haven't heard of that one," Anakin said, his curiosity stoked. "What is it about?"

The storyteller tapped his nose with a finger. "All in good time, sonny. Some stories are still being written, even as we speak."

"Is this what you're doing?" Anakin wanted to know. "Collecting stories?"

The storyteller nodded. "Stories," he said, "Are the life-blood of the universe. They tell us about the things we're capable of, give us reasons to wonder, to see the universe through new eyes…never underestimate the power of a good story, boy." He added, shortly after, "Why, they're telling stories in the barracks and the cantinas now, about the Heroes of Naboo, about the Jedi Master who gave up his life, about his brave student, about the noble Queen who sacrificed for her people…and about a courageous little boy who flew a fighter straight down the gullet of a control ship. 'Into the jaws of death itself,'" he said, with the air of a man quoting something.

"I'm not _that_ little," Anakin protested. "I'm nine, and I'm turning ten soon!"

The storyteller hunkered down and said, "Between the two of us, I wouldn't hurry to grow up." He winked, conspiratorially. "I'll tell you the story of the Well of Songs and the Fallen Star, the next time we meet." He reached into his pocket and scooped out a handful of dust, which he allowed to fall, glittering and bright, through his fingers.

Anakin watched it descend, gleaming, like stardust, and breathed, rapt, "_Wizard_."

"And now," said the storyteller, "I think it's time to show you back to your room. You've wandered far, sonny, and they're going to be worried for you."

"Are they?" Anakin asked, and then regretted it.

The storyteller placed a gnarled hand under Anakin's chin—his palm was callused, but his touch gentle—and raised it so Anakin was looking into his kind, dark eyes. "They are," he promised. "And if they aren't, they will be." He hesitated, and then said, "Give it time, sonny."

He stood up, then, and led Anakin out of the maze of corridors, talking all this while. "And this room," he would say, "Was added by King Edrin Tariyal. He was a good man, that King. He was the man who turned the monarchy into an elected monarchy, though he never put a limit on the number of terms a monarch could serve. It was Queen Amidala who did that." Or: "This tapestry depicts the life of Queen Idris the Wrathful, named because she led a squadron into combat against a fleet menacing Naboo at that time. It was," he added, "A very long time ago."

"Did they win?"

The storyteller looked at him. "They did," he said. "For a time." His voice was sad. "But that's the best we can do, sonny. Sometimes, that's all we get."

"What happened to her?"

"She was killed," the storyteller said. "That story doesn't have a happy ending. There's always a bigger fleet."

"Oh," Anakin said, downcast. But then they were through a last tangle of passageways, and he was at his room, and the storyteller was saying, "Well, here we are, sonny. Best go in now."

"Thank you," Anakin breathed. And then, "Will I see you again?"

The storyteller smiled, let go of Anakin's hand, and tapped his nose once again. "We will," he murmured, and then—

"Anakin!" Blinking, Anakin looked up at a frowning Obi-Wan Kenobi. "Where have you been?" the Jedi demanded, hauling Anakin into his room.

Anakin heaved a sigh. _Well_, he thought, dolefully, _I'm sure in real poodoo now…_

* * *

_A/N: First, thanks to all who left a review, who favved, or even just put this fic on story alert. I hope you enjoy the next installment. I'll say it upfront: the storyteller was one of the characters who became a bit more significant (just a bit) later on, which I hadn't planned, because he was just a cameo of a q-canon character. It's complicated, and the answer isn't yet apparent, but guesses are always welcome. Things will pick up shortly after_—_a chapter or two later._

_-Ammar_


	3. The Council Gathers

**In All The World**

Summary: The story of how Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tamed each other, from Naboo to Anakin's early days at the Temple. Slow-building Anakin/Obi-Wan friendship.

* * *

**Chapter Three: The Council Gathers**

"So you went exploring," Obi-Wan said, expressionlessly.

Anakin tried very hard not to fidget. "Yes, sir," he muttered. "I wanted to find the hangar," he was ashamed to find that he was almost whining. "I'm bored."

Obi-Wan passed a weary hand before his eyes. "I'd forgotten about that," he murmured. "I need to remember not to leave you at loose ends." He hesitated, seeming for a few moments to be struggling with something, before he finally said, "Anakin. I need to tell you something."

Anakin glanced at him, curious. Obi-Wan leaned forward in the dark wooden chair he'd commandeered. "There's an assassin in the palace. There may be more."

_Padmé. _"Padmé," he demanded, instantly. "Please say she's fine, _please—"_ He'd know if she was dead, wouldn't he? Wouldn't he? He'd feel it, the moment they killed her, right down to the very core of his being, like a struck tuning fork.

Obi-Wan rubbed at his eyes. "We really do have to speak about attachment at some point," he muttered. "Anakin—Padmé's fine. The assassination attempt was not directed at her. At least, not in any way that Captain Panaka or I can identify. Whoever it was tried to kill the Captain and myself."

Anakin blinked owlishly. "That's _horrible_," he protested. "Are you…are you okay?"

Obi-Wan glanced at him, as if he wasn't sure what to make of him. "Yes." His voice was clipped, even without that Coruscanti accent. "But for your safety, Anakin, I must insist that you remain at all times with an adult. Either one of Padmé's handmaidens, a member of the palace security, or one of the mechanics in the hangar. Even," he unbent enough to add, at the end, "Myself."

Anakin said, "I don't understand." He picked up one of the fruit still lying untouched on the platter and frowned at it.

Obi-Wan said, dryly, "It's an orange, Anakin. You peel it first, and then you eat it. Give it here." Shyly, Anakin passed him the orange and watched as Obi-Wan peeled it with deft fingers, revealing soft pulp that fell apart in neat, sliced wedges. "Here." Obi-Wan handed him a wedge; Anakin took it and tried it. The juice was sticky and sweet and he decided, in that breathless moment, that he'd found his new _favourite_ fruit.

"Did you cut it?" he demanded. "Because I didn't see you do that. Was it the Force? Would I know if you'd used the Force? You've got to try one! Have you tried one? Have you had oranges before?"

Obi-Wan sighed and handed him another wedge; Anakin ate ecstatically, and forced Obi-Wan to eat some of the orange too, until their hands and mouth were sticky from juice. "Anakin," Obi-Wan said, still with that dry tone to his voice, "I really didn't mean to spend the afternoon teaching you about fruit. No, I didn't slice the orange, it's just the way the orange is, and no, if I'd used the Force, you might've felt it, but you mightn't have. You're not trained, yet."

"Will I be?"

Obi-Wan did not meet his eyes. He said, "That's complicated. You know that members of the Council were…against your training to be a Jedi."

Anakin thrust his chin out mulishly. "So are you," he pointed out.

"I was," Obi-Wan corrected, and Anakin felt joy sweep through him.

"You mean it?"

Obi-Wan nodded, and now he met Anakin's eyes; his eyes were still that troubled, cloudy blue-grey, but he was looking _at_ Anakin now, and talking to him as though he were an equal. Part of Anakin really _liked_ that. "Anakin," he said, "I told you the situation is complicated. Please believe me when I say I'm not exaggerating. The matter of your training—or lack thereof—will be decided when the representatives of the Jedi Council arrive on Naboo, which could be anytime from this evening to tomorrow afternoon. Until then, I really don't know. The Council is…understandably concerned about certain factors which might complicate your training."

Anakin felt a surge of anger. "Well, what are they?" he demanded. "And why are they judging me when they don't even know me?"

"But they've tested you," Obi-Wan replied, calmly. "And that's exactly one of those factors, Anakin: your anger. There's a lot of anger in you, and that's what a Jedi must not have."

"Can't you teach me to overcome it?" Anakin pressed. He still felt—not angry, he thought. Annoyed. Being a Jedi was all he _wanted_, but those stuffy Jedi on the Council seemed to want to keep him out of their precious Order.

"Anakin, it's not that easy—"

"Why isn't it?" he snarled.

"Anakin, control yourself!" Obi-Wan's voice was sharp now; like the crack of Watto's fist. Anakin realised his mouth was hanging open; dumbly, he closed it. Obi-Wan shook his head, like a bantha sluicing off sand, and said, "I should not have snapped. I must apologise to you for that."

Watto had _never_ apologised. But the hurt still remained. Anakin muttered, sullenly, "S'okay."

Obi-Wan ran his hand through his hair. "Let me put it this way," he said. "A Jedi cannot afford anger. We make mistakes; we all do. We _feel_ anger. But we are trained, usually from a very young age, to release that anger. The Council…is worried that the training will not take, when a candidate is as old as you."

Anakin said, "It's not fair." Shmi would've told him that life wasn't fair. And he knew that, knew it in his bones. After all, he had been a _slave_.

Obi-Wan looked him in the eye and nodded, slightly, in acknowledgement. "It isn't," he said. "But life is seldom fair." He added, "I suppose you didn't need me to tell you that. And I didn't come in planning to have this conversation. I meant to urge you, for your own safety, and for everyone's peace of mind, to _please_ stay with someone when you're wandering the palace."

"But why me?" Anakin asked.

Obi-Wan's mouth twitched in an expression that might have been a smile, if he didn't look so run-down and haggard. He said, "Understand this, Anakin. No one outside the Order is privy to its inner workings. To the rest of Naboo—the assassins included—you appear to be a candidate for the Jedi Order, under my charge. That means that if the assassin was trying to kill me because they wanted to eliminate all Jedi on Naboo, you would _also_ be a target. Nevermind that you cannot expect to use the Force in a trained, conscious way, or that you don't have a lightsaber, or that you are, really, a child. They will see you as a Jedi," his voice was growing hard, "And therefore dangerous."

Anakin slumped back in his seat. "Wow," he said. "Okay."

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. "That's all you have to say?" he inquired, mildly.

"What did you expect," said Anakin, before he could think the better of it. "'Gee, thanks, I always wanted to be someone people'd sic assassins on?'"

He was surprised—but not unpleasantly so—when Obi-Wan let out a very short chuckle. It sounded more like a cough. "I suppose," he said, "I should be careful of what I ask for."

* * *

It was late in the evening by the time the representatives of the Jedi Council arrived in the Royal Hangar. Obi-Wan spent the time up till then reviewing security holo-recordings and helping Captain Panaka—who was most decidedly not talking to him unless necessary—check for holes in palace security. Though patrols had been sent through the palace, the guardsman who'd brought Obi-Wan to Panaka's office, and evidently shut him in with the Captain, hoping to kill him, was nowhere to be seen.

They had, however, discovered his escape route: there was a winding passage, with clear footprints, leading through the Thadriélen Wing of the palace, leading down to a small dock with an airspeeder still tied to it. That, Obi-Wan thought, tiredly, had been the bright point of the day: the assassin was still trapped within the palace complex. When the palace had gone into lockdown, all people leaving and entering had been stopped, and now they were only permitted in or out after the most stringent of checks.

He'd retrieved the details of the man's mannerism and face from his memory; Panaka had sent for a man who worked in the Theed police, modelling faces of suspects for the officers from eyewitness reports and of the deceased, particularly in cases where decomposition hampered efforts at identification. Working together, as a fascinated Anakin watched on, the two of them had managed to put together a respectable composite of the second guardsman. That composite had then been distributed to all guard posts. If the assassin braved any of them, he would be stopped.

The shuttle made a graceful three-point landing in the hangar, one that drew a whistle of admiration from Anakin. Obi-Wan glanced at him; the boy had, at least, been silent, drinking in what was going on as Obi-Wan and palace security sought to tighten the net on the assassin. "_I_ couldn't manage that," Anakin said, in admiration. "_No_ one goes three point with a shuttle like this!"

Obi-Wan murmured, "Jedi Master Plo Koon is a very skilled pilot."

"If I get to be a Jedi, will I fly like him?" Anakin asked, wonder clear in his voice.

"Perhaps," Obi-Wan said. "Not all Jedi fly as well as Plo Koon."

Anakin was looking at him, now. "And do you fly like—"

Obi-Wan shushed him. "Not right now, Anakin," he said, distractedly. He was glancing towards the shuttle, which had just completed docking procedures. He could sense it in the Force: so much for representatives. Most of the Jedi High Council had come, which only spoke to how seriously they were taking Qui-Gon's death and the reports of a Sith Lord. In the Force, they blazed; like starlight, like the fierce sun at noon in an open meadow, and for the first time since they'd landed on Naboo, he allowed himself to relax a hair. Hadn't even known he'd been tensed up.

The first Master to emerge was Master Yoda. He headed slowly and painstakingly down the boarding ramp, his stick _tap-tap-tap_-ing against the durasteel. As the Grandmaster of the Jedi Order approached him, Obi-Wan went down on one knee; a gesture of respect and deference.

"Master Yoda," he greeted.

"Obi-Wan," Yoda sighed, leaning on his gimer stick. His ears drooped. "Sorry for your loss, I am. Burned bright, your Master did; bright and fierce!" His eyes darted to where the escort of guardsmen waited. "Speak of this later, we will. Respects to pay, we have."

_The worst moment is the exact moment you must follow the Code, Padawan_, Qui-Gon's voice breathed into Obi-Wan's ear. He drew himself up; held himself erect and proud. "Yes, Master," he said.

He greeted the emerging Masters of the Jedi High Council, one after another. Mace Windu, who glanced at him with hooded eyes and murmured, "Kenobi. Your loss is ours," and unbent enough to touch him, lightly, on the shoulder. Eeth Koth who Anakin flinched from; Obi-Wan reached down and gripped the boy's shoulders and muttered a swift apology to the Zabrak Jedi Master, who only bowed his head and said, "I am proud to have known him. And few have died as much in service to the Force as he was. Ki-Adi-Mundi who said, "Remember the Code, Kenobi." His voice was kind. Obi-Wan _knew_ what he meant, and struggled not to break. _There is no death, there is the Force_. Saesee Tiin mouthed the words with him, clapped him on the shoulder, and went on. Adi Gallia gave him a regal nod. No words were necessary there; he and Qui-Gon had gone on countless missions with her and her Padawan, Siri Tachi. Depa Billaba took his hand, pressed it lightly, and whispered, "There is no shame in grief, Padawan." Even Piell, whose fierce gaze met Obi-Wan's and who said, "If you hadn't killed him, I'd have gutted the Sith Lord that did the deed myself."

One by one, they spoke to him, acknowledging his grief, taking a little of it and placing it on their shoulders, revealing to him the life his Master'd led. For all that Qui-Gon seemed to be at odds with the Council for most of Obi-Wan's apprenticeship, they'd respected each other as equals, Obi-Wan noticed, and this was most apparent now.

Last of all came Plo Koon, who'd flown the shuttle. It was very hard to tell what the Kel Dor Jedi Master was thinking beneath his breathing apparatus, but finally, Plo Koon said, "Kenobi."

"Master?"

"You are not alone."

Tugging his robe about him, Plo Koon nodded to both Obi-Wan and Anakin, and joined the Council members being escorted off by palace security.

Anakin's eyes were wide; Obi-Wan wanted to ask him why, but the boy seemed to collect himself. Instead, he asked, "Where are they going?"

"To meet the Queen," Obi-Wan explained. "When so many esteemed Jedi Masters gather on a planet, it was right for me to meet them first, if only briefly. But then, they go to greet Queen Amidala and to thank her for extending her hospitality to them." Among other things, he thought. He had no doubt that Amidala would need to discuss the arrangements he'd made so far for Qui-Gon's funeral, and the Council would ask for room to confer, perhaps to see the Sith Lord…

"Obi-Wan?"

Obi-Wan went very still. It was, he realised, the first time Anakin had used his name, much less directly addressed him with it. He said, "Yes?"

"You feel sad, inside." Anakin made a strange sort of squished-up expression, as though he was concentrating hard. And perhaps he was. "You're thinking about him again, aren't you?"

He stared at the boy—the one Qui-Gon had foisted on him. _He is the Chosen One_..._He will bring balance...Train him_. The boy looked at him, fearlessly; bright blue eyes guileless. He didn't know what he'd done. Couldn't have been aware that he'd effortlessly reached into Obi-Wan's mind and sensed something of the emotions he was desperately trying to keep hidden.

Jedi Masters did that, Obi-Wan thought, as he reached a shaking hand up to rub at his eyes. Not untrained boys newly freed from slavery. Not someone who wasn't even an Initiate.

"Yes," he said, at last. "I am."

Anakin gave him a long, considering look. "I miss him," he admitted, simply. "He was kind to me. And I miss Mum."

"I know," Obi-Wan said. He reached down awkwardly to press a hand to the boy's slender shoulders. "That makes the two of us, I guess."

* * *

Because Obi-Wan was unwilling to let him out of his sight until the issue of the assassin had been resolved to his satisfaction, they had dinner in Obi-Wan's room, which was very much like his, Anakin noticed, only the 'fresher was on the other side of the room, and there was a very _old_ washbasin of scratched bronze on a stand. He said as much, Obi-Wan's reply was, "I don't doubt it. Much of the layout of this wing favours both symmetry and geometry."

Anakin blinked. "Really?" he asked, over a mouthful of noodles.

Obi-Wan gave a long-suffering sigh. He was, Anakin thought, very good at this; Anakin'd begun to recognise the exact quality of those sighs. "Anakin," Obi-Wan said, "Kindly do _not_ speak with your mouth full." He accentuated the point by deftly scooping up some of those herbed noodles with his own fork and thereafter keeping his mouth firmly shut and eating for what Anakin personally felt to be an _excruciatingly_ long period of time before he said, "Remember the courtyard?"

"'Course I do," Anakin said, reprovingly. "I don't have that bad a memory, you know."

Obi-Wan waved that comment off, fork still in hand. "Well," he said, "If you go down to the courtyard and take a look, the line of symmetry can be drawn directly through the fountain. The buildings on either side reflect each other. And within this wing, they liked smaller symmetries: rooms built around a particular axis reflecting each other, opposing colour schemes, reversed tiling patterns…" He made a face and then commented, quietly, "They were going to put me in a bright red room. I requested somewhere else."

"Why?" Anakin asked, curious, and then his face fell as he realised why; as Obi-Wan's face took on that pained, shuttered quality. "Oh."

They ate in silence for a while after that. The broth was good, Anakin thought, nutty, with the faintest hint of spices, even though it had nothing on his mum's cooking and he asked Obi-Wan if the Jedi Temple had food that was as good. Obi-Wan shook his head; his lips twitched as though he wanted to smile, but had thought the better of it. "I'm afraid the food at the refectory, which is where the Initiates and younglings eat, isn't very good. Enjoy palace food while you can."

He didn't say, Anakin noted, that his fate hadn't yet been decided, that there was a good chance those crummy old Council Masters would decide he wasn't good enough for them because he was too angry and too old.

Besides the noodles, there was fruit again; Anakin was beginning to think that the people of Naboo seemed to like fruit a _lot_ and then his eyes lit up as he noticed several oranges on that platter. "Oh boy," he muttered, happily. "They brought oranges again!"

"Your fondness for oranges has been noted," Obi-Wan remarked, dryly. This time, he showed Anakin how to peel them—working his thumbnail into the skin and then carefully peeling it from there. Anakin copied the man's deft movements, and before long, he was devouring an orange of his own.

He noticed that Obi-Wan wasn't helping himself to the oranges as enthusiastically and said, "You're not hungry, Obi-Wan?"

Obi-Wan looked at him. "I don't like oranges that much," he said, eventually.

"Oh," Anakin said. He felt his face heating up. "I…I didn't know."

"You had no reason to," Obi-Wan said. He sighed, then. "I don't detest them, Anakin," he said. "I just don't enjoy them as much as you do."

"Well, what _do_ you enjoy then?" Anakin wanted to know.

Obi-Wan's comlink chose exactly that time to signal him. Obi-Wan excused himself and headed into the 'fresher. If Anakin listened carefully, he could make out hurried snatches of conversation.

"…yes, yes, I understand. Anakin? I'll need to…yes, Master, I'll get someone to watch over him. Where are you? Understood. Kenobi out."

Finally, Obi-Wan emerged from the 'fresher. He said, "Anakin—"

"I don't need a babysitter," Anakin blurted out, and felt newly embarrassed as Obi-Wan stared at him and raised an eyebrow.

"Do you think I'm a babysitter?" he asked, calmly. It was a tone that made Anakin feel the way he had when Shmi caught him lying about extra hours at Watto's shop so he could go watch the Podraces.

Cursing his tongue, Anakin said, "No, I guess not."

"The Council requires my presence," Obi-Wan said, "And they specifically require my presence alone. And as I daren't leave you _alone_, young scapegrace, I have exactly two options for you."

Anakin wondered what a scapegrace was, but he certainly wasn't going to ask _now_. "And?"

"First," Obi-Wan said, unperturbed, "I comm Captain Panaka and the Queen and see if either of them can spare someone. The mechanics will be coming off their shifts now, so that isn't an option." Anakin shook his head wordlessly. He couldn't think of anything worse than being dragged around by a security officer. But maybe being with one of Padmé's handmaidens wouldn't be so bad. Would it?

"What about Padmé?"

He recognised the disapproving way Obi-Wan shook his head. "We really _do_ have to talk about her at some point or other," he murmured. "No, Anakin, she's very busy at the moment. The second option is this," he reached into an intricately carved wooden cabinet and produced a black device and tossed it at Anakin without warning.

Reflexively, Anakin caught it, and then realised it was a comlink.

"This is—was Qui-Gon's comlink," Obi-Wan said. "I suppose it's too much to hope that you stay in your room or mine?" he sighed as Anakin tried to give him his most innocent look. "Nevertheless. Comm me the _second_ you think something's wrong, understand?"

Anakin nodded. "I can do that," he said. He couldn't find words for what this must've meant to Obi-Wan, giving him one of Qui-Gon's things. If it had been Shmi— "Thank you."

Obi-Wan looked as though he might say something, but instead, he shook his head and settled for, "I'll try not to be long, but I can't make any promises. Be careful."

"You be careful," Anakin said, watching the Jedi's retreating figure. More softly, "You're the one he tried to kill."

The soft sound of the door closing was his only answer. Sighing, Anakin slumped down in his seat. There were a few more oranges on the plate—really, they'd been given far more than the two of them could've hoped to finish, even if he didn't factor in Obi-Wan's distaste for oranges. He looked at Obi-Wan's plate and realised that the Jedi'd left most of his broth untouched and a good amount of noodles remained. Either he was eating slowly, or…

Anakin frowned.

That, he thought, _definitely_ didn't look good. In fact, it stank more than Sebulba's breath on a good day.

* * *

The Jedi Council—excluding Yaddle, Yarael Poof and Oppo Rancisis—had gathered in a large, round chamber in the Esthién wing of the palace, generously offered to them by the Queen. Obi-Wan drew in a short breath and wished, for a moment, that he was anywhere else. For the first time; far sooner than he'd imagined, he was reporting to the Council on his own, without the reassuring presence of his Master beside him.

_How did Qui-Gon do it?_ he wondered. In their latest missions, Qui-Gon had begun allowing Obi-Wan to make a substantial share of the decisions, to write up the mission reports, and to present some of their findings verbally to the Council. But that had always been with the understanding that Qui-Gon was watching him to make sure he didn't make a mess of things. Now, he was on his own: completely and utterly, in a way he had not thought he would be, even when he imagined a distant future in which he was at last a Jedi Knight in his own right.

But then, as Mace Windu nodded, indicating that the impromptu Council session had begun, he found his training taking over. Privately, Obi-Wan was relieved that that was the case. He wasn't sure how well the Council would take it if he fell apart in front of them.

"Report on the events that led to the death of Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn," Mace Windu instructed him.

"Well," Obi-Wan said, and then he had to clear his throat and try again, because his voice had cracked and wavered on that word, "The Council had instructed us to protect Queen Amidala, who was determined to regain control of her homeworld." _Don't spend too much time on the obvious_. Qui-Gon's voice, again. _It annoys them, especially Mace._ "The Queen contacted and forged an alliance with the Gungans, a separate nation of beings on Naboo, though relations between the Gungans and the people of Naboo have been consistently poor. The Gungans provided the army the Queen needed to engage Trade Federation forces. In addition, the Queen snuck into Theed and made contact with some of the dissident forces in the city. The plan was to create a second distraction, so as to free the captured pilots and to put starfighters into the air—as many as possible. The central weakness of the Trade Federation's droid armies is their reliance on a single Droid Control Ship, rather than a more dispersed form of control. The objective of the pilots was to knock out that ship, bringing the invasion to a complete halt. The secondary objective," he glanced at them to make sure he wasn't 'spending too much time on the obvious', "Was to capture Nute Gunray and Rune Haako, the leadership of the Trade Federation. Upon doing so, the Queen felt she would be in a better position to negotiate the end of the blockade."

Ki-Adi-Mundi nodded, slowly. Even Piell simply shook his head. "Foolish business, that blockade," was all he said.

"Carry on, Padawan Kenobi," Adi Gallia said, not unkindly. "What happened, then?"

"The Gungan army attacked and was very nearly overrun." He'd seen the reports of the casualties; those had been frankly astounding and horrific, once the Trade Federation droids had passed the high-energy barriers the Gungans deployed. "My Master and I infiltrated Theed with the Queen's forces, as per our orders to protect her." He willed his throat not to lock up, forged on because he _had_ to. "We were not part of the group meant to take the second diversion; we were headed straight for the throne room, to apprehend Gunray and Haako. We passed through the hangar where we were waylaid."

He drew a deep, shaky breath, and then another. _Breathe, Padawan_, said that voice. Qui-Gon's voice. "Breathe, Padawan Kenobi," Depa Billaba said. He gazed into her dark eyes; saw the reassurance there. "Take your time."

"As long as we are done by sunrise," Mace Windu said, dryly. Obi-Wan was treated to the very rare sight of Yoda hammering his gimer stick into the Korun Jedi's knee—at the same time as Depa elbowed him, sharply. "Continue, Padawan."

His eyes had somehow found Master Yoda's, seeking comfort in the familiar green-flecked amber eyes of the revered Jedi Master, strangely old and young at the same time. "Yes, Masters," he said, sketching a short, deferential bow. "We were ambushed by the Sith Lord. He was as Qui-Gon described him—a tattooed Zabrak male, wielding a double-bladed lightsaber, very powerful in the Dark Side, and terribly skilled with his lightsaber. At that point, my Master and I split off from the Queen's party, under the assumption that the Sith was the most dangerous threat at hand, even above concerns of the Queen's safety." At the nods from the Council, he continued, sketching out the desperate struggle that had taken them from the hangar to the power core to the melting pit.

"And then?" asked Eeth Koth, leaning forward in his seat.

Obi-Wan wished he had a glass of water; his throat was beginning to feel bone-dry. "I was separated from Qui-Gon by cycling laser barriers, meant to keep out unauthorised personnel. Qui-Gon fought the Sith along the melting pit and was struck down." He described that last movement—the ferret-quick twist of the Sith's lightsaber, the shift from a scything slash to the fatal move: smashing his lightsaber hilt into Qui-Gon's chin. It'd been too swift for Obi-Wan to make it out clearly then, but in his mind, he'd replayed the move again and again with excruciating slowness over the past day. "With Qui-Gon stunned from the blow, the Sith Lord ran him through in the chest." The Council nodded.

"We've seen him," Saesee Tiin said. It was the most he'd said since the Council session had begun, and not unusual for him.

"Nasty work," Even Piell said, quietly.

Obi-Wan made a sound that was somewhere between agreement and curiosity. The Lannik Jedi Master glanced at him and added, grimly, "That wound? Blasted thing's not meant to kill immediately, Kenobi. That thing wanted him to die and suffer while he did."

"Even!" snapped Adi Gallia, but the damage was done.

Obi-Wan swallowed. "Yes, Master," he said, unhappily. "May I continue?"

"You may," Mace Windu said, shooting a scathing stare at all his colleagues.

"When the barriers cycled down, I emerged and engaged the Sith Lord." He hesitated. How was he to describe that frenetic life-or-death struggle? Finally, Obi-Wan settled for saying, "I was furious. I came at him as though I wanted to tear his throat out with my teeth. We fought but he was better. He kicked me into the melting pit, but I managed to grab a protrusion and hung on."

He remembered. He'd wanted nothing more than to _die_ beside his Master.

"The Sith Lord had disarmed me, and proceeded to kick my lightsaber into the melting pit. He was toying with me, slashing at the protrusion—not deep enough to cut through it. He wanted to sense my fear, and so he was left open." He met Yoda's gaze again and sighed. All younglings at the Temple had a special relationship with Master Yoda; despite being the oldest and most respected Jedi Master, he had a whimsical, childish side, which he displayed to the younglings, winning their trust with that strange melding of age and wonder. Even now, looking into Yoda's eyes, a long way from home, Obi-Wan felt echoes of that connection, of safety.

"And you struck him down," Plo Koon summarised.

"Yes," Obi-Wan whispered. And more loudly, "I managed to put aside the anger that was driving me when I fought the Sith Lord. I noticed that Qui-Gon's lightsaber was lying where he dropped it." Unconsciously, his hand brushed the lightsaber hilt on his belt. "And so I summoned the Force and leaped out of the pit, calling the lightsaber to my hand." He grimaced. "The Sith could've stopped that movement, I believe, if only it wasn't unexpected. He had the high ground. But I succeeded, and took the first opening I saw. I cut him in half."

"How?" demanded Ki-Adi-Mundi, and not without reason. Cutting a foe in half was taken to be an act of brutality more in line with the wanton bloodthirstiness of the Dark Side, and he sensed consternation in some of the Masters, but resigned acceptance and curiosity in some of the others.

Obi-Wan demonstrated the cut with a quick movement of his hand. "Like this, Master," he said. "At the waist."

"_Sai tok_," whispered Saesee Tiin. Yoda merely blinked, and gestured for Obi-Wan to continue.

"I felt it in the Force as he died," Obi-Wan said, quietly. "It was…" he resisted the urge to run his hand through his hair as he sought the words to describe that visceral experience. It was unfair, he thought, that the passing of the Sith Lord stirred the Force; stirred _him_, more deeply than the passing of his Master. "A tremor," Obi-Wan said, finally. "Like an earthquake."

The Masters exchanged uneasy glances. "Powerful, he was," said Master Yoda. "But more to say, have you, Obi-Wan? Hmm?"

He bowed his head and set his shoulders. "Yes, Masters. I went to see to Qui-Gon." I held him in my arms as he passed on, he wanted to say, but that was irrelevant to the report. "He told me that Anakin Skywalker was the Chosen One, and made me promise to train him, and I will keep that promise I've made to my Master, one way or another."

_That_ startled and annoyed the Council. He could see it in the sudden tension that filled the room; Mace Windu drew up, Adi Gallia sat bolt-upright, Ki-Adi-Mundi narrowed his eyes. Yoda merely blinked, though his ears flicked in what could be a gesture of annoyance; Depa Billaba shook her head, and—most surprisingly—Even Piell laughed.

"Like Master, like Padawan," he said. "Starting to defy this Council as well, Kenobi? Try not to make that a habit."

Obi-Wan swallowed whatever response he might've made; there seemed to be no good one in this situation and merely offered the deferential bow of a senior Padawan to a Council member.

Adi Gallia was the first to speak up after that. "Thank you for making your feelings on the matter abundantly clear, Padawan Kenobi," she said, dryly. "But the Council is not yet concerned with the fate of Anakin Skywalker."

This, it seemed, was the signal for the real inquisition to begin. "Describe once again the battle with the Sith Lord around the melting pit," Plo Koon would say, and there was no knowing what the Master was looking for.

Or, "Explain to me how you felt when the Sith Lord ran Qui-Gon through," Depa's kindness was now replaced by business. "Did you _feel_ him die in the Force then, or did you know that he'd taken a fatal wound?"

As Obi-Wan answered their questions, haltingly, trying to make sense of what they were probing him for, he noticed that they exchanged meaningful glances often but kept up the interrogation. While some of the questions involved how he'd fought, most of them seemed to concern what he'd felt at various points in time, which was completely unknown for a Council briefing.

This, he realised, was something _else._

"An epiphany, you have, young Obi-Wan." Yoda said, and he was, Obi-Wan noticed, smiling softly, his ears upright. "What is it?"

Obi-Wan licked his lips and said, carefully, "Masters—there were security cameras in the hangar and in the power core. So I must assume that you've had access to the security footage." He drew his hands behind his back, assuming the formal posture of a student reporting to the Council. "I'd thought this briefing was to ascertain if the attacker was, indeed, a Sith Lord. But on hindsight, the fact that the Sith had killed a Jedi Master would be enough to prove his identity, when corroborated with my report and Qui-Gon's."

The Significant Glances, Obi-Wan noticed, sourly, were increasing.

"And, Padawan Kenobi?" asked Mace Windu. "What is your point?"

"My point, Master," Obi-Wan said, "Is that this is not a briefing meant to determine if the attacker was a Sith Lord, or to determine if there was anything the Jedi team could've done to handle the fight better. This is not even a briefing. You've been asking me questions about what I _felt_ at various points of the battle. My only conclusion is that you are assessing me for…" Did he dare say it? "…For suitability as a Jedi Knight."

Saesee Tiin said, "Audacious." Master Yoda merely blinked, but, Obi-Wan thought, he didn't seem to show any disapproval. Adi Gallia raised an eyebrow, but the gesture seemed directed to Mace Windu, as if to say, _see? I told you so_.

"Insight," Adi-Ki-Mundi said, and Obi-Wan could not be sure who the comment was directed to, "Is one of the Trials required of a Jedi Knight. And Trials, young Padawan, take many forms." That last was definitely meant for him.

"Thank you, Padawan Kenobi," Mace Windu said, at last. He glanced around at the Council. "Are there any further questions?" When none were forthcoming, he said, turning back to Obi-Wan, "The Council will further confer. Do you have any further comment?"

And then, he remembered. "Yes," Obi-Wan said, and he quickly outlined the situation with the assassin and with the Queen.

"I don't like this," Even Piell muttered, darkly. "That assassin is bad news."

"You were correct to inform Queen Amidala that active investigation of the Five would overstep your mandate," Depa Billaba said, and there was no objection from the Council. "_However_. The Council must take most seriously an attempted murder of a member of the Jedi Order."

Obi-Wan folded his hands in the sleeves of his robe. This briefing, he thought, all of a sudden, was taking _very_ unexpected directions, today.

"The Council will confer on that matter as well," concluded Adi Gallia. "Thank you for bringing it to our attention."

And with that, the grilling had ended. Obi-Wan emerged from the temporary Council chamber, locking his knees to keep his legs from trembling. He checked his chrono and was surprised to discover he'd been in there for over three hours, as the Council had grilled him and grilled him and _grilled him_ about everything that had happened on the day Qui-Gon died. He drew a calming breath, and then another.

Just as he'd reached some semblance of Jedi serenity, his comlink went off.

* * *

_A/N: If Obi-Wan had not been so distracted, and it had not been so late, he might've considered that leaving Anakin alone in his room with a comlink was still not going to be the best of ideas. And since Naboo has generally been conveniently Earth-like (with the exception of the ocean tunnels), I'm taking the liberty of developing it along those lines._


	4. Adventures Underground

**In All The World**

Summary: The story of how Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tamed each other, from Naboo to Anakin's early days at the Temple. Slow-building Anakin/Obi-Wan friendship.

* * *

**Chapter Four: Adventures Underground**

Anakin knew he wasn't supposed to be wandering, but figured that Obi-Wan wouldn't have given him the comlink—_Mister Qui-Gon's comlink_—if he really hadn't wanted Anakin to head off on his own. That Obi-Wan mightn't have ever found himself in a position where a youngling was solely in his care within a possibly-hostile palace full of secret passages and confusing corridors and was, as a result, possibly very far out of his depth, had never crossed his mind.

He'd waited the first hour patiently, trying to keep from screaming, bouncing on Obi-Wan's bed, or rolling around on the carpet, or accessing the balcony. He tried to use that Force Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon talked about an awful lot to make that vase of flowers dance, but try as he might, screwing up his eyes and trying to _feel_ that stillness, that fountain Obi-Wan talked about, the blasted poodoo vase just wouldn't budge. Anakin sighed, crestfallen. Maybe they were right, he thought, dully. Maybe that anger meant he wasn't good enough to be a Jedi. Even Obi-Wan had said—out of Anakin's hearing, or so he thought—that he'd called Qui-Gon's lightsaber to his hand with the Force and used it to kill that Sith Lord.

He _hated_ the Sith Lord. Scowling, Anakin kicked out at the wall, and yelped in pain. Blasted wall. It was in shades of pale blues that was supposed to make him feel restful, but all he could think about was that it was the exact shade of the sky on Tatooine on one of those scorching hot days when water went for fifty wupiupi for a ladle, if you weren't lucky to have access to a communal well.

Everything reminded him of home, and when he'd nothing to do, the pain welled up inside, and he thought it was going to swallow him all up.

By the second hour, Anakin was surreptiously opening and closing the door. _Well_, he thought, _Obi-Wan didn't exactly say I was supposed to stay here…_

That rationalisation was enough. He opened the door and left.

Where to? That was the next question. He'd given up on trying to find the hangar, and Obi-Wan had said something about the mechanics having gone off their shift. Instead, he decided he was going to explore the palace. He thought about the wing that the storyteller had rescued him from; honeycombed with passages and corridors and hallways and grinned. He'd been scared, then. But he had a comlink now, and when he was staring boredom right in the eye, it suddenly seemed like the _best_ idea _ever_.

The problem was, he couldn't find where he'd met the storyteller. All the tapestries seemed the same after a while, and he couldn't seem to locate any of the secret passages he'd previously used.

Then he found something: a painting, askew on the wall.

Anakin couldn't verbalise what was _strange_ about it, just that something was demanding he look at it. Everything in Padmé's home was prim and proper and right in their places: a painting carelessly tilted on the wall just didn't seem to make sense.

He tugged at it. The painting didn't budge. It was a strange painting; Anakin thought, full of greenery and water. Much like most of Naboo. He pushed it, trying to slide it back into place but it seemed to take more strength than he had. All of a sudden, something seemed to give. There was a loud _click_, as though he'd triggered some mechanism. "Uh oh," Anakin managed to whisper, right before a hidden door in the wall ground open.

He gazed fearlessly into the blackness that loomed before him.

"That's how you have an adventure," he managed, excited. He strode on in, not flinching as the door swung shut behind him.

* * *

"_Jedi Kenobi_," said a voice that Obi-Wan vaguely recognised but couldn't quite place. He tried to ID the call, and then his blood froze as his comlink displayed a hauntingly familiar number.

Qui-Gon's comlink.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

His only answer was a soft _tsk_. "_I'm not that stupid, Kenobi. Now, I understand you and the Captain are trying to trap me in the palace. I've seen what you've done to my airspeeder. But guess who's wandered into my hands?"_

"Comlink signatures can be falsified," Obi-Wan said, with confidence he didn't feel. He found he was gripping his comlink, white-knuckled.

_You will fail him. Right before you even kept your promise to him._

The only answer the assassin gave was this: "_Let me go, you kriffing koochoo son of a banth—e chuta!"_ Obi-Wan sighed. Anakin's profanity, he thought dully, was something they were going to have to work through. If he got Anakin back. _If_ Anakin was allowed to become a Jedi.

And if he wasn't?

_Focus on the here and now, Padawan,_ Qui-Gon's voice admonished him. _Do not worry about what you can neither affect nor change_.

_Yes, Qui-Gon._

"_I can tell from your silence,"_ said the assassin, _"That you do in fact recognise my captive."_

"What do you want?" Obi-Wan rapped out. Because if the assassin had genuinely wanted to kill Anakin, he wouldn't have bothered contacting Obi-Wan. He'd just have killed Anakin and have done with. If he was trying to lure Obi-Wan into a trap, he must be vastly disappointed by the number of Jedi now in the palace. That move was doomed to fail.

Something about that nagged at him, but Obi-Wan wasn't sure what. Still, he set aside that feeling and concentrated on what was important.

The assassin said, _"I want my airspeeder prepared, fuelled, with three days rations loaded on it. Neither you nor the Captain will attempt to detain me, or I kill your young apprentice here. If you try to use that Force of yours to track him, I will kill him. I've got a dead man's switch that'll make sure he dies if I die. If you want to see your apprentice back, you'll do exactly as I say."_

Obi-Wan said, calmly, "It's unrealistic to expect palace security to be dropped indefinitely. And you haven't given me any assurance that I'll see him again."

"_You know this comlink,"_ came the amused response. _"I'm sure you can figure something out. I'll contact you with further details. When I get clear of Theed, I'll drop your apprentice off at the very outskirts, his hands still bound. You can collect him then."_

Obi-Wan said, "And—"

But the comlink went dead in his hand. Wearily, Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. It couldn't have gone worse, he thought, taking slow breaths to calm his hammering heart, though he wasn't sure whether it was from anxiety or from anger—or even from fear. Still, he thought, the assassin had said two very revealing things.

First, he thought that Anakin was Obi-Wan's apprentice.

Second, he didn't at all seem aware that the Jedi Council (or at least most of them) was now on the premises of the royal palace.

* * *

"Is he in danger?" Padmé asked, radiating concern. She'd bonded with Anakin, over the long journey to and from Coruscant, and now the knowledge that the assassin had him did not sit well with her. Obi-Wan appreciated how difficult it had been to attain a private audience with the Queen, but it was worth it, if only because the more people who knew of Anakin's situation, the less room they had to manoeuver.

Either way, he thought, Padmé, at least, had the right to know; whether Queen Amidala needed to know the intricacies of the situation was a separate kettle of cy'een.

"Possibly," he temporised. "It is very hard to say, your H—milady."

Padmé accepted a steaming mug of coffee from one of her handmaidens, and turned to them. "Master Windu? Jedi Kenobi?" They both declined, politely. "I've instructed security to provide the Jedi all assistance they possibly can in this matter," she said. "Anakin _saved my planet_. Nothing I can do for him can possibly thank him for this."

"We understand, milady," Mace Windu said.

"But tell me," Padmé said, "Is it true that you can track Anakin through the Force?"

Mace Windu and Obi-Wan exchanged a long glance. _Tell her,_ the Korun Master gestured, and waited. Obi-Wan said, almost apologetically, "It's…complicated." He unbent and accepted a mug of coffee. Sipping from it, he said, "Most people—it seems, the assassin included—believe that the Jedi can talk to each other using their minds. Particularly a Master and an apprentice."

Padmé smiled and said, "I suppose you're about to tell me that such rumours are unfounded."

"It would not be untrue to claim that," Obi-Wan said, and sighed. "You understand, milady, that the Force can allow a Jedi to do many things considered impossible. But—I daren't say 'no Jedi', for the Archives often reveal that there will be some exceptional case—very, very few Jedi are capable of transmitting words into another mind using nothing but a Force connection to that other person."

Padmé sipped at her coffee, visibly enjoying the fragrant beverage. She observed, "You and Qui-Gon seemed to have many such moments on the journey."

He smiled; a sharp riposte, he thought. "Well," he said, "If the Jedi truly could communicate by the strength of a bond, it would, alas, mean that we would find comlinks superfluous. It is not to say that the bond between Master and apprentice is…not special, but that it is simply an intensification of the connection between two very close friends. Or siblings."

"I don't understand," Padmé said. Mace Windu, Obi-Wan noticed, from the corner of his eye, was starting to look both thunderous and impatient. She smiled at him, and he quieted. "So how is that connection in any way different?"

"It isn't, most of the time," Obi-Wan admitted. "It just means you have an affinity for each other in the Force." He glanced apologetically at Mace Windu. "I could sense Master Windu approaching the receiving room from several yards away, but less if he were shielding. If…" he swallowed, and forged on. "If it were Qui-Gon, I would know the moment he was in this wing of the palace. It's not so much deliberate connection, as little flashes of insight, the same way a twin might know if their sibling broke their arm. And I would be able to read him, much, much better than I'm able to read Master Windu. To think of it as a way of _communication_ is not incorrect, but it's a connection on a very deep level, one that doesn't need any words."

"I seem to have realised," murmured Mace Windu, deliberately, "That Padawan Kenobi is wasted as a field agent." The look he shot Obi-Wan from hooded eyes was not reproachful, not quite, but it treaded close. Obi-Wan offered him a small bow of apology.

Padmé interjected, "On the contrary, I am grateful to Jedi Kenobi for that revealing explanation of the nature of a connection. Am I correct in presuming that you do not have even that type of connection with Anakin?"

Obi-Wan exhaled and shook his head regretfully. "I'm afraid not, milady." He offered her a gentle smile. "I believe we're going to have to work entirely through traditional means. Master Saesee Tiin is examining the security recordings as we speak." He finished off his coffee and returned it to the handmaiden with a murmur of thanks.

"Of course," Padmé said. She wasn't smiling now. "You have my thanks, and that of all Naboo for your efforts in locating him."

The two Jedi bowed. "He's in our charge, milady," Mace Windu said, simply. "The Jedi take our responsibilities very seriously, particularly when that same culprit has made an attempt on the lives of one of our members. To that end, the Council will be undertaking an investigation into that assassination attempt. Oh, do shut your mouth, Padawan Kenobi, you're gaping."

He was, Obi-Wan realised, as he dutifully assumed a proper, composed Jedi expression. He'd never heard of the _entire Council_—short three members—undertaking a full investigation before.

"…These are extraordinary circumstances," Mace Windu was saying, "And the Council retains full confidence in Padawan Kenobi's ability to protect you, milady. We cannot discount the possibility that a strike was meant against you."

"I share your confidence in Jedi Kenobi's abilities," Padmé acknowledged with a faint smile, her dark eyes meeting his. "But if there is, in fact, a conspiracy collaborating with the Trade Federation?"

"Then we will deal with it," Mace Windu was no stranger to staring competitions and his stern expression did not waver. "_If_ evidence of such a conspiracy turns up in our investigations."

Padmé broke their locked gazes first and said, handing over her emptied cup to her handmaiden with a whisper of thanks, "I have every confidence that your presence alone may flush them out, Master Windu. But there is a second matter to discuss—" and here, her eyes flicked over to Obi-Wan. "Jedi Kenobi has assured me that there is no need to defer the victory celebrations out of respect for the dead."

With Mace Windu looking at _him_, now, Obi-Wan said, hurriedly, "Qui-Gon, at least, would not want the celebrations delayed on his account."

"No," murmured the stern Jedi Master, "He would not. Is there something of concern, milady?"

"Only this," Padmé said. "I've considered delaying the celebrations anyway; Captain Panaka has assured me that these incidents have left palace security in hysterics and they would be much happier if I left the celebrations for until the holes in palace security have been sufficiently patched. And in any case," her chin firmed up, "I intended the delay out of respect to _all_ who fell in defense of Theed."

"Milady, I don't understand where this concerns the Jedi," Mace stated, his expression grave.

"I would be honoured," Padmé explained, looking between the two of them, "If the Jedi were to be present at the celebrations. Certainly, much was only possible because I had the support of the Jedi Order—" her lips twisted in a tired smile here, "—unlike the Senate."

Mace Windu did not acknowledge her baldly expressed misgivings. He said, "Milady, it is we who would be honoured." And that was that.

* * *

"_E chuta_," Anakin cursed, struggling futilely against his energy cuffs. He felt like the galaxy's greatest fool. He'd trudged down the passageway, excited, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. He did that on those dark nights on Tatooine when it wasn't worth the truguts it took to turn on a light and so he had to fumble with his tools in the almost-dark until his eyes adjusted. Mum always insisted he use the lights, but he could see that worried look in her eyes: the one that said she was counting every wupiupi and wasn't going to tell him just how bad it was. Shmi was like that; they danced around each other and tried to protect each other, because they were family.

The air in the passageway wasn't as musty as he'd imagined it might be, which should've been the second warning. The first should've been the askew painting. Either way, as the passage kept descending, Anakin shivered slightly, realising that he was going _underneath_ the palace and that it was getting colder. Eventually, the passageway opened out to a large cistern; with the same grand arches he was starting to get _tired_ of seeing, overgrown with thick green moss and almost-translucent water, reflecting the mosaiced ceiling. Glow-lamps, crafted to look like blazing rods of plasma, were fixed to each of the large pillars.

He was thirsty, so he stepped timidly to the water's edge, knelt, and drank. The water was cool and clear, if a little stale. He wondered belatedly how long the water had been here for.

As he gazed out into the cistern, trying to make out the subject of the carved friezes on the far end, rough hands grabbed him; one slipped over his mouth, and he felt something cold prick his throat. And then he felt a trickling warmth and realised he was bleeding. "Don't move," said the assassin—for too late, now, Anakin realised who that man was and what he had stumbled upon. "I know you—you're the Jedi's boy, aren't you?"

"Lemme go," Anakin snarled, trying to twist away, until the assassin said, coldly, "I don't want to kill you, boy, but I shall if you force me to."

He dragged Anakin bodily, away from the water and Anakin strained to see where the man was taking him to. They passed one of the many platforms in the cistern, the man wading in the water, until they reached their destination: another platform.

There was someone else there, bound; Anakin gaped as he recognised the storyteller. The old man gave him a nod of recognition and a wide-toothed smile. "Told you we'd meet again, sonny," the storyteller said.

"Shut up," the assassin replied. He snapped energy cuffs around Anakin's wrist—and Anakin froze. He remembered those—sometimes, slavers used metal cuffs which sent electric shocks through disobedient slaves, but energy cuffs could be worse. They resisted most attempts to break them open, and the worst sort gave persistent slaves bad electrical burns when they tried. _They used them on Mum,_ he remembered. That thought alone filled his head with an angry red mist.

Once he was trussed up, the assassin searched him, swiftly and ruthlessly and discovered the comlink. "Excellent," the man murmured, tossing the comlink idly from one hand to another. Unlike the storyteller, his dark eyes gleamed like Watto's. They weren't cruel; just greedy and flat. "I bet this goes to your teacher, doesn't it boy?"

"It's _mine_," Anakin snapped, "So give it _back_ to me, you…you koochoo!"

But the assassin wasn't paying attention to him. He studied the comlink in his hand closely and then—and then he'd smiled.

* * *

Everything was so surreal Obi-Wan half-wondered if he would wake up in his bunk back at the Temple. There was the unhealed sting of Qui-Gon's absence, but more than that: It was working with the Council to secure Anakin's return. Although the Masters mostly worked independently, Adi Galli was organising _everything_, and Obi-Wan was surprised at how well she put everyone's efforts together, until he remembered that she was one of the Temple's best diplomats, and that often involved organising negotiations and peace talks.

Even Piell said, "You need to talk to him."

Obi-Wan blinked down at the small, one-eyed Master. The easiest, safest response when confronted by a Jedi Master making a cryptic statement was always, "I don't understand."

Even Piell snorted. "You lost, Kenobi? That pekketak thinks you're that Skywalker boy's Master. Now, he don't know you're not, and you said it yourself: he don't know we're here. So you're the one who's got to make all the deals, negotiate with him. You follow?"

Slowly, Obi-Wan nodded. He'd handled his share of hostage negotiations in his time with Qui-Gon (hurt like breathing), but Even Piell, he remembered, was the Order's specialist when it came to terrorists or hostage negotiations.

"Good," Even said, rubbing his hands together briskly. "So now that you're with me, Kenobi, we need to start making a list of how you're going to talk to him."

Obi-Wan said, half-remembering, "Conditions, specifics…"

Even nodded. His grin was wolfish. "Ever lost a pair of underwear, Kenobi?"

"Ah…" The deportment handbook, Obi-Wan thought, never did cover exactly what to say to a Jedi Master like Even Piell.

Even Piell waved a dismissive hand. "No need to confess to me," he said. "But if you've ever lost a pair of Temple-issue underwear—"

Although Saesee Tiin was staring fixedly at the security recordings, Obi-Wan heard the Master sigh. Adi Gallia was shaking her head.

"Even," she said, "We've heard about the underwear _ten times_, I'm sure Padawan Kenobi doesn't want to—"

"Look," Even said, cutting across Adi Gallia to speak to Obi-Wan, "Nevermind about the karking underwear, just think about how the—"

"Language," Adi sighed.

"—Temple Quartermasters get bloody-minded every single time you lose a pair of underwear. Or a boot. Or a robe. Real pain in the kosit. 'Do you want a brown robe? What sort of brown do you want? What size is your underwear? Do you want stripes or polka-dots?'" he mimicked the infamously serious tones of the Head Quartermaster, Master Turang, and Obi-Wan noticed Adi Gallia bring a hand to her mouth, as if to conceal a yawn.

Obi-Wan rather thought he got the point. "The more time I give him to think, the less time he spends planning," he surmised.

"Exactly," Even said. "So stall. Stall like the best Quartermaster ever. Ask him about his underwear like it _matters_, and make him decide every single stitch."

"Even," Adi said, in that same tone she'd first used. "I think you've just about beaten that metaphor to death with your lightsaber."

"But what do you want me to ask for?" Obi-Wan said, and Even's eye glinted dangerously, as if he might repeat the entire lecture about the Temple-issue underwear all over again, so he hurriedly added, "I assume we're planning on extracting Anakin. I need to know if we plan on extracting Anakin _before_ the exchange, during, or after."

Even chewed on that for a few moments. Adi said, "Saesee?"

Saesee Tiin glanced over at them and said, apologetically, "It's a big palace. It'll take time to find the correct recording."

"Fine," said Even. "Then we assume we want to get your boy without any of that stabbing and killing we're usually good at. And on the side—just because kosit happens in an eye-blink, we prepare an extraction team and have a plan for _that_." He frowned. "Best time's during a negotiation, but I reckon he's not going to come out of that hole until it's time, so if we're going to run an extraction, we'd need to do it at the moment he puts his hand on that airspeeder." He looked at them, idly running a hand along his scarred eye. "But talk first. Extract later. Just how good at talking are you, Kenobi?"

* * *

Anakin lay back against the cool stone and tried to sleep. Moonlight filtered in through slitted grates at the side of the cistern; the water was still, except for the occasional breeze. Although the distracting murmur of the fountain was not here, he found he missed it. It was as though he'd grown accustomed to it, over the course of the night.

The storyteller slept in an odd position; he knelt on the platform and closed his eyes and seemed to doze off immediately. Anakin tried to do so, but he felt far too restless to doze off; keyed up with nervous energy. He'd overheard the demands the assassin made to Obi-Wan, and then he'd forced the comlink to Anakin's mouth to make him speak. All he could think about was that it was _Qui-Gon's_ comlink and it seemed unfair that a man who'd tried to kill Obi-Wan should be holding it.

Would Obi-Wan even rescue him? He'd thawed a little in the past days but Anakin figured that the Jedi had a distaste for him since Qui-Gon first introduced them, and in recent days, Obi-Wan had seemed distracted with the weight of his duties and then with the grief from Qui-Gon's death…

He cast his gaze over to where the assassin slept; far enough that Anakin couldn't kick him, but close enough that he could shoot them if they tried to escape. Not that they could make much of a run for it with their hands bound, Anakin thought, irritated. And there was all that _water_, and some of it was higher than he was tall…The blaster, though. He scowled at it. The assassin carried his blaster in a shoulder holster, and Anakin thought he recognised it. A simple SoguSteel Enforcer DT-17, the favourite model for law enforcement and criminals alike. He only knew this because many of Jabba's men used SoguSteel Enforcers as well, and he'd caught a glimpse of it in a holomagazine that Shmi had saved because it discussed the latest Vantage Tech shields and Watto wanted her to start salvaging _those_ from a ship he'd won in a bet.

So many coincidences, Anakin thought, staring at the blaster and trying to will it to move. If he _had_ the blaster, then the shoe would be on the other foot. Besides the blaster, the only weapon he could see was the knife. He thought the man was bluffing about the dead man's switch: he didn't recall any explosives having been strapped to him.

Unless…

The transmitter, he thought, with that flash of mingled fear and anger, had been _disabled_. But the actual, physical transmitter was still implanted in him, as it had been since the day he was born. Surely there was no way the assassin could've had a way of re-enabling it?

On the heels of that came a second thought: that which can be disabled can be re-enabled.

Anakin's breath hissed out between his teeth. No, he thought, frustrated, he couldn't do this…

The blaster _twitched_.

"Couldn't sleep, sonny?" the storyteller asked.

Anakin started, and tore his eyes away from the assassin. "No," he said. "I couldn't." The storyteller had cracked open an eye and was watching him. He didn't at all seem bleary or sleep-fogged.

"Thought so," said the storyteller.

"Why are you here?"

The storyteller smiled. "Ah, sonny. Don't we all want to know that?" He stretched out, as much as he could, given the energy cuffs binding his wrists together. "I'm here because I wandered into the wrong story. The Great Cistern beneath the palace of Theed is a sight for the eyes," he murmured, "And I'd wanted to examine some of the friezes—some of them date back to the very beginnings of the monarchy on Naboo, or so the stories say, when Queen Faraé first drove back the Gungans into their gleaming bubble-cities far beneath the swamp-waters and set the first cornerstone that is the heart of Theed today." He watched Anakin's reaction and added, "It's whispered that the day the Heart of Theed cracks, the city will crumble and be no more."

"It shouldn't crumble," Anakin said, at last, disturbed by the thought. There was grandeur here, that whispered he didn't belong, but it was a stately, grand sort of beauty, and beauty nevertheless, and something in him quailed at the idea of that being destroyed.

The storyteller shrugged. "Sonny, time marches on. All things change," and his eyes were too knowing, too kind. They were, Anakin thought, for no reason at all—the kind of eyes that had watched cities crumble; worlds die.

"I don't want them to," he whispered. He drew up his knees against his chest, as far as he could. "They shouldn't." Changes meant Shmi; meant never being able to turn back, Qui-Gon's death…_But there're good changes too,_ part of him argued. _Did you want to spend forever as a slave on Tatooine?_

"If there's something I've learned, it's that wanting doesn't help things," the storyteller remarked, tiredly. "In fact, it quite often makes things worse."

"Wanting makes things happen," countered Anakin. It was true, he thought. He'd _wanted_ to win the Boonta Eve Classic so badly, had known that all of Qui-Gon's and Padmé's hopes were riding on him. That had driven him in the final lap, when his Pod'd gotten entangled up with Sebulba's. You _had_ to want; wanting was what made you a person. Slaves weren't supposed to want.

The storyteller raised an eyebrow. "It does," he said, mildly. "So does a hammer. It doesn't mean you want to go around carrying a hammer in your hand all the time, does it? Hammers are dangerous things. Could break your own finger with it. You've got to know when to put it back in your toolbox and keep it away for another day."

"Maybe," said Anakin, unconvinced. He sighed and shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position on the cold, hard platform. For a while, there was a companionable silence, and he tried unsuccessfully to fall asleep.

Eventually, the storyteller spoke up again. "Boy?"

Anakin opened his eyes and glanced at him.

"Do you want to hear a story?"

* * *

_A/N: Apologies for the tardiness. Life's been rather hectic of late. Thanks to all who reviewed. I usually attempt individual responses but am currently pressed for time._


	5. The Well and the Star

**In All The World**

Summary: The story of how Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tamed each other, from Naboo to Anakin's early days at the Temple. Slow-building Anakin/Obi-Wan friendship.

* * *

**Chapter Five: The Well and the Star**

"Listen," said the storyteller, at Anakin's nod. "I'm going to tell you the story of the Well of Songs and the Fallen Star."

Anakin thought there was a rock, digging uncomfortably into his behind. He shifted slightly until he was more comfortable.

"Have you seen the stars?"

Anakin blinked. "Yes?" he said, cautiously, when it became clear that the question wasn't part of the story and that it was directed at him. "I mean, Mum was talking about all that light percu—per—pollution, I think it's called—and she was saying we don't get much of that on Tatooine. That's why we could see so many stars."

"They're beautiful, aren't they?"

Anakin nodded.

The storyteller went on. "Stars are wondrous things; they are born in a wash of fire, spend billions of years gleaming in the darkness of space and shed their light over everything—" he made an aborted gesture with his cast hands, "—everything beneath the night sky. And then, after billions and billions of years, they burn out. They die."

Something in Anakin whispered, like an echo, _even stars burn out. Even stars die._ He shivered, all of a sudden.

"This story," continued the storyteller, "Is not about a star that burned out. It's not about a star that died. A long time ago, a star fell in the desert. Those who saw the fiery passage of the star knew that change was coming to the desert, for they studied the night skies and they knew how things worked. There were some stars, blazing more brightly and fiercely than the others in the sky; they would burn for weeks and months, sometimes years, and then finally, they would be gone. The falling of a star meant changes in the way of things."

Anakin listened, thinking, for a moment, of Shmi. She'd loved the stars, loved them with a passion and at the same time, they'd made her so unutterably sad he'd have to put his arms around her, and comfort her the best he could.

"Some time later, travellers were stranded in the desert; far from water, far from civilisation and therefore far from all hopes of rescue. They had only a few days of water with them and they knew only a little of how to survive in the desert. They did not know how to walk across the sand, nor did they know the signs of life in the desert. And they did not know how to read the signs of hidden wells."

"That's _horrible_," Anakin said, for he'd grown up on a desert planet, and so he couldn't help himself.

The storyteller nodded serenely and went on. "There were three of them. One of them was a man who had lost himself and didn't know where to look. The second was a woman: a powerful warrior whose heart was proud and cold and distant. The third was another man, who had seen his world burn to ash and who carried that pain and distrust with him ever since, like a scar."

"How do you lose yourself?" Anakin wanted to know.

"Losing yourself," said the storyteller, "Isn't the problem. Finding yourself again is," he shook his head. Anakin tried to make sense of that, but the storyteller was already returning to his story. "But let us return to the travellers. They were desperate, but not without hope. For they had heard about the Well of Songs, and now they knew their only hope lay in finding the Well."

"They knew it was there?"

The storyteller nodded, again. "There are few stories about the Well," he admitted. "Spacers prefer talking about the angels on the moons of Iego, or the Lost Ship that the unwary freighter will encounter on hyperspace jumps in some areas of the galaxy." Now it was Anakin's turn to nod, though sheepishly. He'd heard about both of them from the spacers at the local cantina. "But the man without a name; the man who had lost himself—he had heard of the Well; a rumour from an old spacer making his last cargo run. And he _believed_. And he knew he wanted to find that Well."

"And?"

"And so they wandered the desert for days." The storyteller shrugged. "They tried to be sparing with their water, but it was slowly running out. And in the desert, water is life."

Anakin nodded. He knew that all too well.

"And at last," the storyteller's voice dropped to a hushed whisper and Anakin leaned forward to be better able to hear him, "When they were on their last legs, dazed from the heat, confused enough to chase the slightest of mirages—they found it. The nameless man peered into the Well and saw in its depths many wondrous things. Above all, he saw the distant glimmer of fallen stars, at the very bottom of that darkness. For the Well is deep, very deep. But they were half-mad with thirst. And so one by one, they dipped their hands in the Well—" the storyteller did the same, as best as he could with bound hands, cistern water dripping between his fingers, "—and drank from it. It was the sweetest water they'd ever tasted, faintly metallic. It was cool, but burned as it slipped down their throats, like the banked fire of the fallen stars at the bottom of the Well."

He paused, seeming to wait for something. "What happened next?" Anakin asked, wide-eyed with astonishment.

"They lived," shrugged the storyteller. "All of them. They managed to find rescue at a nearby settlement, and they soon repaired their ship and went offworld. In the months and years to come, the man who had watched his world die was able, eventually, to let go of his pain. To trust again. He waited, years and years, to be able to keep a promise that he'd made. And for someone to keep a promise made to him." He was, Anakin realised, very sad.

"What about the woman?" he asked, instead.

The storyteller's expression changed; became thoughtful. "She fell. Far and fast, like a star, setting everything in her wake ablaze. She wandered far into a cold and dark place—and it was a bad kind of darkness, because it was a friendless place. But then one day, the first man—the nameless man—found her, as he had found his own name. He found her there, in the friendless dark, and spoke to her. For she, too, had drunk of the Well and seen in its depths the light of fallen stars. For such people, sonny, the darkness…is never truly dark."

Anakin said, "I don't get it."

"In the darkest night," said the storyteller, "The distant stars still shine."

It sounded like something Shmi would've said, but Anakin didn't tell him that. For one, the storyteller didn't know who Shmi was. For anotherr, he wanted him to finish the story. "And so? What happened then?"

"She took his hand," the storyteller said, and smiled. It lit up what had been a grim if thoughtful expression, turned it into something warmer, less ragged. "She took his hand, and he drew her out, back into the world they'd left behind. She became wise and brave and strong, because she'd gone once into the dark, but she'd come out again, and that was a very, very difficult and brave thing to do."

"Did the Well have anything to do with that?" Anakin asked. "It seems to be special. Like the stories of lightsabers and the really special sword General Yusanis used."

"It's just a story," said the storyteller, eventually. "But all stories have a grain of truth in them, sonny. You just have to know where to look. The water from the Well was special because all water is special." He smiled gently at Anakin's confusion. "In the desert, water is life," he repeated. "Lots of times, water is good for the body. I knew a crazy fool once, who ventured into the desert without any water. Lots of people die that way. But sometimes, water's good for the spirit. It nourishes it. It gives life to something dessicated, the same way it feeds the plants and animals and beings."

"…'kay," mumbled Anakin, who had begun to decide that the story had too few lightsabers for him to find it that interesting. But then, something caught his attention. "What happened to the other man? You said he found his name."

"Yes," said the storyteller, and for the first time, he appeared to have been caught off-balance. "So he did," he murmured. "He found himself again, over the years. It was a long and painful task, and his journey took him to dark places no one should have to endure, and he had to leave behind everything he cared for. But he found himself." His eyes glittered, fiercely. "Sonny, it was the one bright, shining thing that gave him strength. Made all of the dark years worth it."

Anakin lapsed into a long, thoughtful silence. At the end of it, he said, "I think I'm going to sleep now. Thank you for the story, Mister…?"

"You do that, sonny," said the storyteller, glancing out into the waters of the cistern, ignoring the question. "You do that, now."

* * *

Obi-Wan held the comlink before him and tried desperately to _not_ think about underwear. It was hard to do so, when Even Piell was standing right at his elbow.

Finally, the assassin replied. "_Kenobi_," he said. "_Are you calling me to inform me that the airspeeder is prepared?"_

"Actually," Obi-Wan managed, "I'm comming to inform you that I'd like to know what kind of rations you want in your airspeeder."

There was a few moments of disbelieving silence. Even Piell's elbow smashed into Obi-Wan's shin and he fought hard to not cry out into the comlink. _Oh right,_ he thought, _form a rapport first_. The few times Obi-Wan had dealt with anything like hostage negotiation, Qui-Gon had been the one to gently talk the hostage taker into surrendering, and how he did that with his leonine build and intimidating height, Obi-Wan just didn't know. It probably had something to do with his Master's connection to the Living Force.

"_Any kind,"_ replied the assassin. _"Do you have nothing better to do?"_

"You might remember," Obi-Wan said, "That you've got my apprentice. The very last thing either of us wants is for you to decide that the rations are some sort of trick and to kill him. I do appreciate your difficulty; Captain Panaka is terribly thorough and rather much of a pain in the neck, but I do have to do things the proper way."

There was another long silence, and Obi-Wan was beginning to worry when the assassin hissed, _"Fine. I'll take the standard rations Naboo gives its military."_

"Do you have any allergies?" Obi-Wan asked. No nudge from Even Piell was forthcoming, so he assumed he wasn't making another tactical blunder. "There're several types of rations," and before this morning, he would never have believed that the Naboo military used five different sorts of rations, not to mention the trail mix.

"_I know that!"_ the assassin was beginning to sound most definitely nonplussed. After yet another awkward pause, he said, _"I don't care. Just give me three days worth of rations."_

"I'll get you the Type C rations," Obi-Wan said, "Which is the standard trail mix with figs and dates. Will these satisfy you?"

"_Yes,"_ said the assassin, impatiently.

"Good," Obi-Wan said, "And now, on to the next item on the checklist—I'll need you to confirm that the airspeeder runs on 20% fuel. Would you prefer us to use 20% leaded, or would you prefer us to use a different kind of fuel?"

"_Jedi,"_ the assassin said, _"I didn't know you were some narrow-minded bureaucrat. If you don't fill the karking airspeeder, we see how good your boy flies with a hole in his head. You understand me?"_

"I want to be able to assess his condition," Obi-Wan said. "Consider this a condition of any deal we cut."

All he got was dark laughter. _"No conditions. If you don't want to deal, I ventilate your apprentice and find my own way out."_

"I think," replied Obi-Wan dryly, "That if you _had_ a good way out of the palace, you'd have taken it and you'd have, as you put it, 'ventilated' my apprentice from the very beginning."

"_Perhaps,"_ came the reply, but it was the assassin who folded first. _"I'll bring the boy with me at the point of the exchange,"_ he said, grudgingly. _"You can take a look at him then, but nothing more."_

"Agreed," Obi-Wan said, crisply, moving on to the next point on the list he'd painstakingly devised with the help of Even Piell.

Saesee Tiin made a subtle gesture with his hand and Obi-Wan recognised it instantly. He was signalling with the silent code Jedi used on missions and sensitive negotiations, indicating, _we've got him_. He glanced over at the comm centre screen where Plo Koon was tracking the comm calls. As Qui-Gon was—had been—a Jedi, his comlink had been last set to a secure Jedi frequency. Obi-Wan had seen no reason to change that; Anakin had no reason to know or fiddle with the comlink. But that also meant that it was an easy task for Plo Koon to track the ongoing transmission to its source: the holographic map of Theed palace whirled, zooming in until they reached a final glowing red dot, deep underneath the palace, in the cistern that provided the palace's water.

_He's in the cisterns_, Obi-Wan realised, but he couldn't let that rattle him in his ongoing exchange. "We need to arrange how you'll approach the airspeeder. For obvious reasons, we can't permit you access to other parts of the palace."

The Council members, he noticed, were already beginning to leave. Saesee Tiin paused to speak to some of Captain Panaka's guardsmen, and then left with them. _"I'm not going to be enough of a fool to give you my location, Jedi,"_ the assassin said, flatly, and then hung up.

Obi-Wan exhaled, still holding his silent comlink. "Well," he said, keeping his voice neutral, "That could've gone better."

"Could've gone worse," Even Piell said. "Stars, Kenobi, your Master said you were trained as a diplomat! What happened there? You went charging in like a rutting nerf!"

Obi-Wan tried very hard not to flush. "You suggested I stall for time," he said, quietly.

"Yes, I did," Even Piell said, arms folded across his chest. "I didn't say to _make him angry_."

"You asked me to be like a Temple Quartermaster," Obi-Wan pointed out, dryly. "They tend to be rage-inducing." The words had hardly left his mouth when he realised what he'd said. Quickly, he turned to look, but Adi Gallia was, mysteriously, coughing into her hand.

Even Piell said, flatly, "I didn't expect that to overtake your common sense." He sighed. "That makes both of us, Kenobi. Well, we've got him. Saesee will be pinning him down, but before that…" He glanced at Adi Gallia, eyebrows raised.

Adi Gallia took over, smoothly. "Depa's got results," she said.

* * *

Depa Billaba and Eeth Koth had taken over the task of tracking how the assassin and his counterpart had even infiltrated the palace. "He killed two guardsmen," said Eeth Koth, in his softspoken voice. "We found their bodies shoved into an old well on the palace grounds."

"Androl and Jens," Captain Panaka said, grim anger flashing in his dark eyes. "Those were good men, Master Jedi. I aim to see their murderers brought to justice."

"The prisoner," Depa Billaba said, folding slender arms across her chest, "Had more interesting information to share." As she moved, the sunlight glinted off the golden beads affixed to her forehead and brow: the Greater and Lesser Marks of Illumination worn by the Chalactan Adepts. "He was an ordinary tough, hired by the man who made the attack on Padawan Kenobi and the Captain. Theed police said he'd been arrested before for small-time petty crime: mostly to do with slicing computers and stealing data."

"So he was hired for his skills, to slice into the security system," Obi-Wan said, trying to feel the shape of the puzzle as it had been presented to them.

Depa Billaba looked at him, and nodded slowly. "That would be my conclusion," she agreed. "But there is another interesting piece of information: he knows the identity of the man who hired him. The assassin is none other than Arvol Resnik."

Obi-Wan frowned. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. Meanwhile, Captain Panaka cursed, quietly but fiercely.

"Resnik," Panaka spat. "What a surprise."

"Who is he?" Obi-Wan asked.

"A bounty hunter," Adi Gallia said at last, speaking up. "A rather good one too, known for taking on dirty jobs. Last year, he took on a lucrative contract to assassinate the King of Lithun and succeeded. The only question is, why would he take on a contract to assassinate a Jedi Padawan and Captain Panaka?"

It was Captain Panaka's turn to scowl. "She's right," he muttered. "It doesn't make any sense. You don't hire someone like Resnik to murder the head of security and a Jedi. You send him after Queens." He looked at them and blanched. "Excuse me," he said, and bowed out of the conversation, heading over to a corner and speaking hurriedly into his comlink.

"My main conclusion," Depa said, at last, "Is that someone badly wanted Padawan Kenobi and Captain Panaka out of the way. Or, they thought that it would be an excellent distraction to tie up security: a wounded or dead Jedi and head of security would mean that no one in the palace would be paying attention elsewhere."

"But there's another problem," Obi-Wan said. "If Resnik is as good as you say," he nodded to Adi Gallia, "Then bounty hunters like him don't come cheap. And they don't work except through a factor, which means whoever hired him needs contacts."

Adi Gallia let out a long slow breath. "What are you thinking of?" she asked him bluntly.

"Unless it's the Trade Federation," Obi-Wan said quietly, "In which case, we would expect them to have attempted to assassinate Queen Amidala. No, it seems to me that she might have been right about the Five. They seem to have the resources—in particular, the money to be able to hire someone of Resnik's calibre."

"That's speculation," Adi Gallia said, but she relented and added, "Padawan Kenobi, that can be investigated later. Don't lose your focus. Right now, it's imperative we get Anakin back unharmed."

Obi-Wan nodded. "I'm sorry, Master Gallia."

She shook her head. "It happens to us all the time." Her comlink blinked, and she answered it. "Gallia." After a brief conversation, she looked up at all of them. "Saesee's in position," she informed them. "Mace and Ki-Adi-Mundi are making sure all exits to and from the cisterns are being covered. Yoda's securing the airspeeder as we speak."

Obi-Wan could not quite hold back a gasp. The idea of _Yoda_ being deployed in the field was…had Yoda even taken a mission in Obi-Wan's lifetime?

"You know," Even Piell remarked, "He may be old, Kenobi, but he's not quite decrepit yet."

"Yes, of course, I mean…" Obi-Wan stammered.

Adi Gallia took pity on him. "He's set up operations some distance from the main entrance to the cistern. Come."

He followed.

* * *

Blearily, Anakin opened his eyes. The first thing he realised was that the roaring he was hearing was shouting. A touch on his shoulder. The watchful eyes of the storyteller met his; the man shook his head, and then withdrew.

_I knew that,_ he thought, impatiently. Enough of Watto's rages had taught Anakin when to keep his mouth shut.

The assassin was pacing, shouting into the comlink. All of a sudden his eyes fixed on Anakin. "You, boy," he gritted out. "I told you not to tell your teacher where we were!" He grabbed Anakin by the scruff of his neck—

"Lemme go!" Anakin snarled, kicking out at him, but the man had a tight grip on his collar and wouldn't relenquish it.

"Shut up," he snapped, and out came the blaster, the one Anakin had noticed, pressed to his temple. "Come out now, Jedi, or I kill him!"

"Really," came a familiar voice, and Anakin had never before known how _glad_ he could be to hear that voice—and then the shadows disgorged the robe-shrouded figure of Obi-Wan Kenobi. "I had thought you'd made your feelings on the matter amply clear by now, Arvol."

The assassin—Arvol—said, "I want your hands where I can see them, Jedi. Remember, I have a dead man's switch."

Obi-Wan looked at them, evenly, but his eyes flicked for a moment to Anakin's. _I'm okay,_ Anakin mouthed, even though he felt the cold muzzle of the blaster pressed roughly to his head. Sure, he was hungry, and he was _cold_, but now Obi-Wan was here, and since the Jedi had wanted Anakin to stick close to him, Anakin was pretty sure Obi-Wan wasn't going to let Resnik kill him.

Slowly, deliberately, Obi-Wan raised his hands. He said, his voice gentle, the sort of voice, Anakin thought, you used to talk to an injured bantha when you didn't want it to stampede, "I'm unarmed." And sure enough, Anakin couldn't catch the glint of his lightsaber hilt anywhere on his belt.

Arvol said, "You're a Jedi. You don't need a laser sword to be dangerous. How did you find me?" All of a sudden, the emotion in his voice flicked off; there was nothing, except coldness and curiosity. In spite of himself, Anakin shivered.

"As a professional courtesy," Obi-Wan said, "You were right to figure that being in the cistern would block your comm signals from being traced. But the comlink you were using was a Jedi comlink, and Jedi frequencies can be traced in unique ways." He added, a few moments later, "You must be aware; we've prepared your airspeeder and loaded the rations on it. Type C rations, in fact. Three days worth of them. You don't need the boy."

"No," Arvol said, evenly. "I believe the boy is the only thing keeping you from taking me, right here. Because if we're exchanging professional courtesies, Jedi Kenobi, _I heard your comm chatter_," he snarled, the last few words dripping with menace. "You've surrounded the cistern, and this boy—" the blaster muzzle dug even further into Anakin's skin, "—is just about the only thing keeping them from going in."

"I'm surprised," Obi-Wan said, at last, not admitting it explicitly. "I was under the impression that the comlink couldn't access the channels being used."

"Trade secret," Arvol said, shortly.

"The point stands," Obi-Wan said, when it was clear that the stand-off was going nowhere. "Arvol, I'm sure you're aware of the fact that a dead man can't spend his credits. And I'm equally aware of the fact that a dead apprentice does no learning. So we have something each other wants."

A nudge on his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Anakin thought he could see the storyteller, mouthing something at him. He tried to make out what it was.

_Wanting_, he thought. That was it.

Wanting. They'd spoken about wanting and making things happen. What did he _want_? Siowly, almost as though in a trance, he saw the assassin's blaster in his mind, saw where the muzzle was pressing into his temple. He broke it apart in his mind, then, laid the blueprints he'd seen in that holomagazine against the actual physical blaster. The Enforcer DT-17 had one main weakness: the power-pack was externally fastened to the handgrip by a slender pin.

If he could—

"Arvol, you must understand that when you say that I don't need a lightsaber to be dangerous, you are _correct_."

Everything happened at once. The glow-rods in the cistern flickered out. For some reason, Anakin knew that a pin slipped; a power-pack fell to the ground. And in the next moment, he was buried in Obi-Wan's arms and an arc of blazing green light swept through hand and blaster, severing them both.

"Don't let go," Obi-Wan whispered to him. _This is what safety smells like_, Anakin thought, bemused. Desperation, exhaustion, and sweat. He clung to Obi-Wan like a limpet as the Jedi turned, compensating for Anakin's weight, to bring the lightsaber up before him in a guard position.

"You are under arrest," Obi-Wan said, formally, to the captured assassin.

"He's got a remote!" Anakin shouted, at once, as Arvol's other hand reached into his jacket pocket. He couldn't see, but somehow he _knew_ what the man was trying to do—

"Close your eyes, Anakin!" Obi-Wan barked, a moment before his lightsaber plunged into the man's chest.

The lights came back on. Anakin saw that faint look of surprise in those dark eyes, as Arvol sank to his knees, and very slowly, died. Obi-Wan flicked off his lightsaber.

"Are you all right, Anakin?" he asked.

Anakin nodded. "I am," he said, and he realised he was still clinging on to Obi-Wan, and the Jedi had almost reflexively pulled away from the hug. For no reason, Anakin realised someone was sobbing; and then a few moments later, realised it was him.

"There, there," Obi-Wan said, awkwardly, patting Anakin lightly on the back. "You're safe now. I promise."

* * *

_A/N: Thanks to all reviewers :) One of the biggest hints as to the identity of the Storyteller is in this chapter, but he will not be a major feature from here on out. This is the most we're going to get to see of him. As I said, he was an interesting element, but I didn't want that part of the story to get out of control. This is not his story, but Anakin's and Obi-Wan's, and so what he's really on Naboo for is orthogonal to what's going on._

_To those who are surprised that the assassin thread got resolved so quickly-surprise ;) They had a really tight schedule, and this wasn't set up to be the major point of this part of the story at all._

_-Ammar_


	6. All Yesterdays

**In All The World**

Summary: The story of how Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tamed each other, from Naboo to Anakin's early days at the Temple. Slow-building Anakin/Obi-Wan friendship.

* * *

**Chapter Six: All Yesterdays**

Anakin was crying—probably a hysterical reaction, Obi-Wan thought, absently. The boy had been ridiculously brave, and well…he looked down at the corpse of Arvol Resnik, bounty hunter. He had tried to take Resnik alive; the man might've yielded more information about who had hired him. He'd been forced to kill him when Anakin had warned him about the remote.

He might've disarmed Arvol, but it was a risk that was difficult to take.

_Acknowledge the death, Padawan_. Qui-Gon's voice reminded him. _Then move on_.

He did exactly that; breathed out, let loose the feelings of frustration and guilt and anger, acknowledged that he'd killed Arvol because he'd needed to save Anakin's life, and Arvol's death had been unavoidable. He acknowledged that the act of taking a life—no matter how deserving the person might have been—was a heavy act, one that weighed down on him.

And then he let it all go; let the Force pour into him, clean and pure and full of light.

Carefully letting go of Anakin and setting the boy down, Obi-Wan said, "Hold out your hands and hold still." Anakin obeyed. In a quick motion, Obi-Wan brought his ignited lightsaber down on the cuffs, shattering them. He did it swiftly enough that all Anakin would feel was a flash of heat.

He looked over at the old man; the other prisoner that Resnik had taken. He was old; dark-eyed, with a neatly-trimmed beard gone white. "Jedi,' said the man. "I suppose I have you to thank for my rescue."

He held out his hands, having seen what Obi-Wan had done with Anakin's bonds. Once again, pale green light hummed through the binders on the old man's hands, breaking them. Obi-Wan put away his Master's lightsaber and said, "The Jedi serve." It was the response Qui-Gon had always given. "Who are you?"

"I'm Rian Tamir," said the old man, "A travelling historian and storyteller. I was visiting Theed palace during the time the Trade Federation came down on us all," he frowned, "Nasty business, that. Anyway, I came to admire the architecture. There are many very, very old stories about Theed palace. And the cistern is beautiful, isn't it?"

Obi-Wan smiled, politely. "Yes," he said, in reply. "Yes, it is."

But it was the truth he'd spoken. The cistern _was_ beautiful. He hadn't the eyes to see it earlier; his vision had been clouded by worry, tension and fear. Now, as they bled out of him, he saw the marvellous arches, almost rivalling the hallways of the Jedi Temple in splendour, but while the Temple was stately, austere, even, the cistern was magnificent, and he drank it all in. The carved friezes, still preserved. Motes of dust drifting in the rich sunlight that spilled in through the vents that opened up to the day. The water around them, smooth and still. And then, he looked up and felt the breath stolen from his lungs. The ceiling was a vast mosaic—depicting the rising sun, glorious and blazing and the various settlements and cities of Naboo; a whole herd of the famba beasts, and majestic birds, each feather a vibrant jewel—it was all Obi-Wan could do to gaze upon the work of a nameless craftsman's hands in wonder and not want to fall to his knees before that splendour.

"That ceiling," Tamir said, nodding to it. His voice was gruff. "Commissioned an age ago by King Valerian of Naboo. It pierces you, doesn't it? Right through to the heart when you first see it. A beauty that lasts the test of the ages, and hidden right beneath the palace, to boot."

Obi-Wan whispered, "Yes."

The moment was shattered abruptly; his comlink buzzed, dragging him back to the world and his responsibilities with a sudden, dizzying jolt. "Kenobi," he said, into the comlink. "Yes, Masters, I've got him." He switched off the comlink and turned back to Tamir. "Some other Jedi and the rest of palace security are waiting outside for us. If you'd come with me, we'd need to have you assessed by a medic and debriefed."

Tamir inclined his head. "Of course," he said. He seemed amused, for some reason.

Anakin said, hysterics finally gone, "You didn't need to tell me to close my eyes." His eyes met Obi-Wan's, unfazed. "I've seen people die before."

"You didn't have to see this one," Obi-Wan replied. "Never witness a death you don't have to." _Padawan_. Qui-Gon had told him that; had pulled Obi-Wan away from the edge all those years ago on Nar Shaada when the smuggler Jorax had plunged to his death and Obi-Wan had failed to save him.

He realised what he was doing: passing on Qui-Gon's lessons to Anakin. _Is this what you wanted, Master?_ There was, of course, no answer. He was on his own now. He'd known that all along. But here in the cistern, having just saved Anakin's life, having admired the glory of the craftsmen of old, the pain seemed strangely distant. He knew it would engulf him again, the moment they emerged and allowed the world to enfold them with all its pains, all its duties, and all its responsibilities, and yet for that moment, he felt as though he stood strangely apart; in a portion that somehow reached beyond the here and now, as Qui-Gon would've referred to it, and into the infinite depths of Time itself.

Anakin's eyes grew dark. "No one looks at slaves when they're alive," he said, matter-of-factly. "The least anyone could do was to look at them when they die."

* * *

With Anakin safely in the charge of Adi Gallia, and with Rian Tamir having gone off with Saesee Tiin for a check and a debriefing, Obi-Wan and Even Piell returned to the cistern to search for any clues Resnik might've left behind.

"That boy," said Even Piell, the moment they were out of earshot. "You've got your work cut out for you, Kenobi."

"Master Piell," Obi-Wan managed, "I—"

He felt the Master's grip on his forearm and he turned and looked down into the dark eyes of the Lannik Jedi. "The Council will see him trained," said Even Piell, matter-of-factly. "Danger notwithstanding. We'd be daft not to, with his role in the liberation of Naboo, and the Sith out of hiding. The Force is moving us, Kenobi, and even if we can't see the greater game being played, we sometimes have to close our eyes and allow ourselves to be moved." His lips twitched in a wolfish grin. "He's strong in the Force. We all know this. They'll be drawn to him like kozigi flies to a glow-rod." That grin faded, now, and his gaze met Obi-Wan's, searching. "He must be trained. He must be protected."

"I will train him," Obi-Wan replied, to the first. And then, "I will protect him. I promised Qui-Gon as much."

Even Piell released his hold on Obi-Wan's arm. "Seems to me your Master made you promise you'd see the boy trained," he said, simply. "Nothing was said about who would do the training."

Obi-Wan read the subtext in the Master's voice. "You, Master?" he barely hid his surprise. "You mean to undertake his training?"

Even Piell sighed. "That boy, Kenobi. He's going to be trouble. And he could use someone who can deal with that." His mouth twitched in that wry smile again. "I think even Yoda might offer to train him."

"I…I don't understand," Obi-Wan said.

"Spit it out," Even instructed. "Or we'll be standing around all day waiting for someone to get to the point."

"None of you wanted to see him trained," Obi-Wan said, and amended hastily at Even's quirked eyebrow, "Enough of you didn't. I know Master Yoda felt Anakin was dangerous. Why the sudden reversal?"

Even said, "Because we mean for him to be trained." He gave a short chuckle at Obi-Wan's expression, his long, bat-like ears flapping with his amusement. "Look, Kenobi. The Council is cautious. But it doesn't do things by half-measures. It has agreed that the boy will be trained. So it's not going to do that half-arsed by throwing the boy into the pool of Initiates and leaving him to sink or swim. Someone like him, with all that anger in him…" he shrugged. "Well, it was a thought. That he could use a Master who would stabilise that out."

"But…" Obi-Wan spluttered. "You're telling _me_ that I've got my work cut out for me."

Even Piell said, calmly, as he stooped to inspect the body of the bounty hunter, "Kenobi, you're not going to have a career as a negotiator if you don't learn to control that…" he waved his hands in a rough, choppy gesture, "…jumping around. Not smooth. A negotiator must be _smooth_. You must gain their trust. You cannot be like a landed fish, flailing around." He added, "I could've sworn Qui-Gon did say you had undergone some diplomat training."

Obi-Wan ignored that familiar stab of pain, said, "We were primarily trained as field operatives. It sometimes included diplomacy."

Even's mouth twitched in that half-smile again. "So I see. Aggressive negotiations, eh?" He studied the body, began to rifle through Resnik's gear. "All I'm saying is, that boy's starting to trust you. Maybe it's attachment. But maybe it's a good foundation for a Master-apprentice relationship. But it'll be difficult, Kenobi. Mark my words on it."

"Because of my experience?"

Even looked up at him and shook his head, the motion making his ears flap a little. "No," Even said, calmly. "And yes. It's because of what you are. He's a handful and a half; exuberant as anything, but whatever the case, he's not going to be like those disciplined little hellions you find at the Temple. He's wild, through and through, he won't laugh at some things, and in some ways, you'll find that being a slave and having only his mother for company's going to make him more grown-up than you'd expect. You're going to have to deal with all of that, with nothing else to lean on. In some ways, he'll be very different from you as a Padawan, and you're going to have to accept that."

Something crumpled caught Obi-Wan's eye, but it was just the wrapper from a ration bar, discarded. He picked it up, shoved it into one of the evidence bags.

"Well, well," muttered Even. He plucked something out of the assassin's clothing and showed it to Obi-Wan. It was a datapad. "Plo'll probably be able to do something with this. Might give us some hints about his employers." It went into yet another evidence bag, along with his knife and his blaster. The power pack, Obi-Wan noticed, had mysteriously fallen from the blaster, and it took them several moments to discover the attaching pin.

Anakin had managed to slip the pin out, using the Force. It was a small thing, but it had saved his life, Obi-Wan thought, in that startling moment where palace security had managed to bungle things up by shutting off power to the cistern.

He'd no time to think about losing Anakin—perhaps he would've reacted before Resnik had pulled the trigger. But perhaps not. It was a risk he wouldn't have taken, given the choice.

"He moved it," Obi-Wan said, surprised.

"So he did." Even bagged the attaching pin separately from the power pack. Obi-Wan wondered why—it wasn't as if fingerprints mattered, now. It was why they weren't wearing evidence gloves. He plucked Qui-Gon's comlink off Resnik's belt and tossed it to Obi-Wan, who caught it and tucked it away in his tunic with the intention of returning it to Anakin later. "Training a Padawan, Kenobi—that's the ultimate negotiation. You have to build a rapport with him and gain influence before he'll listen to you."

Obi-Wan said, dryly, "I suppose you're telling me I have to tame him."

Even laughed. "Or will he tame _you_?" He glanced at Obi-Wan; his amusement clear in his eyes. "I'm interested to see what will come out of it."

* * *

Anakin dug into another spoonful of mash and tried not to look up. Even so, he could feel the Jedi's gaze boring into him, like the lasers of a starfighter. It was a funny sort of mashed grain that Anakin hadn't tasted before, but rich and creamy and—like everything else, with herbs to offset the blandness. And of course, there were oranges.

Whatever the Jedi's name was—Obi-Wan had mentioned it but Anakin hadn't been paying attention—she seemed to be his minder for now. She'd gotten him checked over by a medic, who'd cleaned the blood off from the small cut on his throat and pronounced him okay except that he needed a meal.

And so the Jedi had taken him to get something to eat. Dutifully, he followed her into the palace kitchens, where she'd conferred hastily with the chefs and gotten the mash, and the platter of oranges and taken him to a quiet side-room to eat. Occasionally, Anakin's spoon would find a shrivelled dark oval in the mash. The first time, he'd recoiled. "Ew!" he'd yelped, and then, "You put _droppings_ in your food?"

The Jedi raised an eyebrow and looked at it. "Haven't you had raisins before?" she asked him.

"No! What are they?" Anakin wanted to know. Inside, he felt a small tendril of anger coil in the pit of his stomach. Surely it wasn't _his_ fault that slaves on Tatooine never got to try exotic foods.

"Do you know what grapes are?"

Another mute shake of his head.

"They're a kind of fruit," she sighed. "Grown in the vineyards of the highlands here. The Naboo ferment the fruit to make a kind of wine—but you're too young for that. Still, they keep some of their crop to eat. Raisins are dried grapes."

"Oh," he muttered. Still, he poked at it dubiously. He wasn't going to touch something that looked like womprat poodoo.

"Just try it," she said, as if she'd read his mind. "You'll like it, I think."

He wrinkled his nose, but she was watching him, and somewhere in the back of his head, Shmi was reminding him he _had_ to be polite, so he ate one, cautiously, just about ready to spit it out. It was _sweet_, he realised, surprised. He dug for another raisin and ate it. It seemed to blend with the mix of herbs, making the mash more fragrant.

He wolfed down the bowl of mash and started in on the oranges. He was _hungry_; he hadn't eaten in what seemed like a day, and he wondered what would've happened if the assassin had needed to feed him. Maybe he should be glad it hadn't come to that.

In the end, he was the one to break the silence first. The Jedi simply shifted on the bench, and seemed to close her eyes and to—Anakin frowned; was she doing that meditation thing Obi-Wan had talked about?

"Ma'am?"

Without opening her eyes, she said, "It's Master Gallia, young one."

Anakin scowled. Funny how that word could darken his mood. He jammed the next slice of the orange in his mouth, but it tasted like sand.

"Calm down," Gallia said, her eyes still closed. "You have too much anger in you, Anakin." Even the surprise that she knew his name was dulled. "The Jedi do not keep slaves."

"Could've fooled me," he muttered.

"Anakin," Gallia said, and now she cracked open an imperious eye and regarded him, "You are really going to have to learn to be less rash and judgemental. I apologise for not explaning myself well. I'd forgotten that your background might leave you sensitive to this matter. The title 'Master' is not a title of ownership; it is a title of respect. By referring to me as 'Master Gallia', you acknowledge what the Jedi do—that I have demonstrated a level of self-mastery that is unrivalled in the Order."

"'kay," he mumbled, still unhappy. "So you call people who master themselves 'Masters'?"

She nodded, encouragingly. "That's exactly it," she told him. "There are exceptions. Padawan Learners—apprentices—call their teachers 'Master', even though those teachers may only have the formal rank of a Jedi Knight. But they refer to their teachers as 'Master' because these teachers are taken to have 'mastered' the skills they are now conferring onto their apprentices."

"S'stupid," Anakin said. He glanced at her, challenging her to disagree.

Gallia sighed. She said, "Anakin, you're going to learn that in a lot of places, people do things differently. And if being different is enough for you to consider them stupid, then you're going to have a lot of difficulty in life."

He said nothing.

Her lips quirked in a wry smile. "But," she said, "Having said that…I must agree that the honorary title of 'Master' these Knights get is little more than flattery. In this case, flattery backed by tradition."

"I guess," he said, grudgingly. "But then why do it?"

"Why flatter people? Or why follow tradition?"

"Both," Anakin said, finishing off the rest of the orange and surreptiously drying sticky fingers against his tunic. It was getting grimy, he thought, and sighed. Back home, Shmi would've scolded him for doing that. _It's not clean, Anakin, and you know better than that,_ she'd have said. Or she'd have reminded him to change and shower more often.

She seemed to be considering his question seriously. "What do you think?" she asked him.

He frowned. "Well, flattering people seems to be good if you want to get them to do something you want to. Even if it's mostly lies," he added. "But…it's polite, I guess." It was an admission he didn't want to make. "But traditions are _pointless_."

"Traditions give society its structure," Gallia contradicted him, leaning against the table. "Traditions, customs, laws—they may seem pointless, and they may sometimes be wrong, but they help people make sense of things. What is that?" she pointed at his spoon.

"It's a spoon," Anakin said, hesitant, wondering where the catch was.

"What does it do?"

"I use it to eat?"

"What if I told you," Gallia said, "That there is a society on the planet of Ukaruwa that is based on nomadic hunter-gatherers? They don't have soup; they eat with their hands. What do you think they would make of your spoon?"

Anakin frowned. "But it's a _spoon_," he spluttered.

She took his spoon, held it before him. "Your traditions and customs tell you what this spoon is. They tell you how to use it. An Ukaran gatherer might tell you that this is a pretty ornament for his hair. An Ukahran hunter might ask you if this was a toy for her children." She set the spoon down before him. "A simple spoon," she said.

Head buzzing, Anakin said nothing.

"Am I interrupting something?"

He would know this voice, Anakin thought, even twenty years later. Padmé, almost glowing in the simple clothing of one of her handmaidens, swept into the room; he noticed two members of palace security flanking her discreetly. They moved into position at the doorway as she came up to him and caught him in a big hug.

"Oh, Ani," she murmured. "I'm so glad you're safe."

"Me too," he said.

She released him and greeted Adi with a nod. "Master Gallia," she said. "My apologies."

"You weren't interrupting anything important," Gallia said, with a smile. "Nothing but a small conversation about the uses of a spoon."

Padmé laughed. "Korsaran, I presume?"

Gallia looked gratified. "I'm surprised to see you've read of him, your Highness."

"My tutor loved him," she said, with a mock-shiver. "Made me read him all the time until I swore I could recite Korsaran backwards and I _hated_ it. I don't believe that traditions and customs and laws are all derivative from social conditions, Master Gallia. I believe that some principles are universal."

Anakin said, "What?"

Padmé smiled and ruffled his hair. "Don't worry about it," she said. "I just wanted to pay you a visit and to be sure you're fine. And I wanted to thank you again for what you did for my people. Naboo owes you a debt we can't ever repay."

"S'all right," he said. He confided, "I wasn't really sure what I was doing, anyway."

She and the Jedi Master exchanged glances. Anakin didn't know why.

"I hope you'll be less sad now, Padmé."

"I believe I will be," she said, favouring him with a radiant smile.

"Will we still be friends?"

Padmé said, "Of course."

"I don't think Obi-Wan is all right," he informed her.

"He will be," Padmé told him. "Just give him time." But she was more distant now, and try as he might, Anakin could not quite figure out why.

* * *

"Master," Obi-Wan said, waiting respectfully on the threshold of the room that was now serving as the impromptu Council chamber on Naboo. "You sent for me."

The only response he received was a sudden surge in the Force and the almost-simultaneous clatter as a gimer stick, gnarled with age and smoothened by Yoda's clawed hands, clattered to the marble flooring.

In the next moment, Obi-Wan threw himself to the floor as the Force screamed a warning—just in time as Yoda shot through the space where he had been, his lightsaber a neon streak of bright green plasma.

"Master?" he managed, uncertain. The Force prompted him again and he rolled aside just before Yoda landed where he had been. His training took over and he performed an agile backward flip, landing on his feet in a fighting crouch and drawing Qui-Gon's lightsaber. But he did not ignite it. "I don't understand. What's going on?"

"Guard yourself, you should," was Yoda's only enigmatic response.

In the next moment, he hurtled towards Obi-Wan, and the only possible response was to flick his Master's lightsaber on. He was still startled at the forest-green blade; the lightsaber hilt was too slender, too strange in his grasp. He beat off the Jedi Master's first blow and barely fended off the next few whirling slashes Yoda had delivered. His robe swirled around him, hampering his movements, but he barely had a moment to rip it off.

They fought; Obi-Wan tried moving into an attack combination or two, but Yoda moved with a liquid ferocity that Obi-Wan had never seen in the Master. He was motion itself; his lightsaber seemed to flare with an incandescent light as he struck from all directions, forcing Obi-Wan to parry madly if he didn't want to find himself spitted on that lightsaber.

He drew on the Force; with Yoda in the room, it was easy to reach out to the Force, despite the emotions that marred his grasp of it—grief, rage, frustration, worry—and it rushed into him like the mighty headwaters of a thundering river, sweeping him up with it.

His leaps and flips and somersaults became more fluid; he blocked Yoda's slashing spins and tried to gain leverage to bind Yoda's blade and then cut at him, but Yoda reversed direction _all of a sudden_ and a clawed foot lashed out at Obi-Wan's face.

He staggered backwards, the Force leaking from him and Yoda collected himself but charged again, utterly silent.

As well as Obi-Wan fought, he could not withstand the Grandmaster of the Jedi Order and he knew it. Surely Yoda knew that too. So why were they fighting?

He blocked a cut aimed at his midsection and turned the movement into a spinning backslash that batted Yoda's blade out of the way, but the pommel of Yoda's lightsaber smashed into him and it was all Obi-Wan could do to keep hold of his Master's lightsaber.

Fighting the Sith hadn't been like this. The Sith had been fluid, primal aggression, but he hadn't been a whirling dervish that was impossible to pin down, impossible to engage. Ataru had three axes of motion, and Yoda seemed determined to make that _four_. As he fenced Yoda, Obi-Wan understood why Qui-Gon had chided him numerous times for falling into the trap that Ataru meant axes of motion which meant _linear_ motion.

Yoda was using all of the space; when Obi-Wan slashed at him, he would dodge at an angle and then reverse direction and come at Obi-Wan from a different angle.

"Master," he pleaded, "I don't want to fight you!"

"But fight you do," Yoda replied, his robes flaring about him.

And then, Obi-Wan _understood_.

He flicked off his lightsaber and swept it down and to the side in the formal salute. He bowed to Master Yoda and waited.

Up came the green blade, swept past his neck and then—

There was the lightest of tugs and then his Padawan braid fell, severed onto the marble floor.

Yoda sheathed his lightsaber. A feather-light nudge of the Force guided his gimer stick back into his hand. He looked, Obi-Wan thought, terribly tired, as though his use of the Force had drained him. As Yoda approached him, he knelt, so he was meeting Yoda's eyes.

"Confer upon you the level of Jedi Knight, the Council does," Yoda said, simply.

Obi-Wan blinked back the tears from his eyes as he said, "Thank you, Master Yoda." His voice might've choked up on him if he'd attempted to say more. "But, why?"

Yoda stooped down and picked up Obi-Wan's Padawan braid. Clawed fingers pressed it gently into Obi-Wan's unresisting hand. "A sorrow it is," said Master Yoda, "That here your Master could not be, to cut your braid." To look into those green-flecked gold eyes was to behold a sadness that was, somehow, as deep as his, Obi-Wan realised, but tempered with wisdom and Jedi discipline. "Proud of you, he would be."

"Master," he murmured. "You…" he fumbled for words to express what he had seen.

"Trained all of you, I have," Yoda replied, mincingly. "Think you that Master Yoda does not remember?" More wistfully, he said, "All of you—as younglings, I remember. Your childhoods were my yesterdays." He prodded Obi-Wan in the shin with his gimer stick, lightly. "Your sorrow is mine as well, Obi-Wan. Bear it, I do."

Mutely, Obi-Wan nodded, and tucked his Padawan braid away into his tunic. Finally, he managed to work around the lump in his throat. "Master, why the test with the lightsaber?"

Yoda looked at him. "True tests," said Yoda, "Never end. Fight well, you do. But insight? Remember, do you—when a lightsaber must and must not be used? The most important thing a Jedi must know is restraint."

"If I hadn't remembered…" Obi-Wan murmured, and Yoda jabbed him again with the gimer stick. Harder, this time.

"Of 'if's, speak not! Happened, it did not. Knight, you now are. Knight you must _be_, however you feel."

He bowed his head. "Yes, Master. What about Anakin?" He thought of the conversation with Even Piell, but did not quite know how to bring it up.

Yoda solved that dilemma by saying, "Spoken with Even Piell, you have. Hmm?"

"Yes, Master. He mentioned that the Council had decided that Anakin was to be trained."

Yoda said, "Rash, this was."

Obi-Wan stifled the thought of Even Piell as a rash youngling, being whacked by Yoda's gimer stick. It was a difficult task. He said, "I will take Anakin as my Padawan Learner."

Yoda blinked slowly; he appeared unsurprised. He said, "Misgivings, I have."

"Even so, Master," Obi-Wan said, firmly. Against Yoda's caution, he set his promise to Qui-Gon. Barely—just barely—his promise to his dear, dying Master won out.

"Agree with you taking on this boy as your Padawan Learner, I do not."

"Qui-Gon believed in him," Obi-Wan replied. "I believe in Qui-Gon." He _must_ hold on to that.

"The Chosen One the boy may be," Yoda said. The gimer stick tapped as he shifted and paced. He turned back to look at Obi-Wan. "Nevertheless, grave danger, I fear in his training."

"Master Yoda," Obi-Wan said, "I gave Qui-Gon my word." He drew a deep breath, clenched his hands into fists, forcing himself to say the rest of it. "I will train Anakin. Without the approval of the Council if I must." He knew that bringing up Even Piell would do no good here; Yoda was the Grandmaster of the Jedi Order, and his voice swung the Council. Not even Even Piell would override Yoda with a clean conscience.

There was only one thing—one very narrow thing—that could overrule dissent from the Council. It was a very old rule that had not been invoked in millenia: the right of a Jedi Knight to train whoever he saw suitable as his pupil.

Yoda sighed. He looked, Obi-Wan thought, his heart clenching in his chest, very, very old. "Qui-Gon's defiance, I sense in you," he said, at last. "Need that, you do not. Agree, the Council does. Your apprentice, young Skywalker will be."

"Thank you, Master Yoda," he breathed. Felt relief move through him, loosen the nervous tension in his muscles.

"Thank me, you should not," Yoda said. "Grave danger, I fear. Grave danger…" his ears flicked.

Carefully, Obi-Wan said, "Master Piell said most of the Council had considered taking Anakin on as their Padawan Learner."

Yoda gestured irritably. "Set on this course, you are," he replied. "Considered the matter, we did, long and hard. If danger, there is, how will it be averted? By doing nothing? By training him? By whom?"

"But why let me…ow!" The gimer stick whacked him across the shin, and Obi-Wan yelped in pain and wondered grouchily if whacking Pada—Knights with a gimer stick was part of the path to the Dark Side.

"Busy, a Council member is," Yoda said, simply. "Many duties, they have. And _attention_, the boy needs—more than anything else! Attention, you will be able to give him. Important, that is. Split, your time will not be—between Order and Padawan! And you have been trained well. Knew what he was doing, Qui-Gon Jinn did. Enough reason, that was, to permit this."

Obi-Wan said, "But Siri?" Felt the pain and the disbelief, as he had on the day Adi Gallia returned, grim, without her Padawan. The day he'd learned that Siri had fought with her Master, had been cut off, and had left the Jedi Order.

Yoda replied, "Different." His ears drooped. "Less clouded. Brighter. And made many sacrifices, Master Gallia did. Not so easy a decision anymore. Know that, you should, Obi-Wan. Being a Jedi—"

"Is sacrifice," Obi-Wan completed.

Yoda nodded, slowly, seriously. "Even more so for a Master," he said. "Even more so."

His hands tucked in the sleeves of his robe, it was Obi-Wan's turn to nod. "I understand, Master. I will not fail you, Qui-Gon, or Anakin."

Yoda shook his head sadly. "Make that promise, you should not." He gazed out into the distance. "Unavoidable, failing may be."

* * *

_A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed. Pardon if I take a while to get around to responding, but please know they were greatly appreciated :) Apologies to all for the slow update-I've been dealing with some RL difficulties of late since I'm working three part-time jobs and still doing uni. Hope y'all enjoy the next installment._


	7. Assembling the Five

**In All The World**

Summary: The story of how Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tamed each other, from Naboo to Anakin's early days at the Temple. Slow-building Anakin/Obi-Wan friendship.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Assembling the Five**

Anakin thought, glumly, that everything had taken a turn for the worse since his rescue. The Jedi Master—Gallia—seemed determined to watch him like a kutaka hound, just in case he got off into any trouble. The result was that he wasn't allowed to do anything remotely interesting and he was _bored_. Gallia didn't seem inclined to let him head off to the hangars to watch the mechanics work. Instead, when the moment he finished eating, she hauled him off to the palace library and told him he could get a datareader there, and she'd see that a few books he liked were loaded onto it.

"Can you read?" she asked him, very directly.

"'Course I can," Anakin said, indignantly. "Look, I know plenty of slaves can't read or write, but Mum—" he hid the pain of separation. Something told him that Gallia wouldn't regard that well. They'd asked him enough questions about his mother, back when Mister Qui-Gon had put him before them and explained to him that the Council was going to test him to see if he could become a Jedi. "They're cautious, Anakin," he had said, then, kneeling, but even then, he towered over Anakin. "Perhaps cautious to a fault, but they want to get to know you before they decide."

"'Kay," Anakin had replied, determined he wasn't going to wash out. In some of the dreams, he came back to Tatooine as a Jedi. There wasn't any other explanation, he thought, then. After all, only Jedi carried those laser swords, and he'd just somehow known—dream-Anakin had known he was a Jedi and that he was doing…for some reason, the other traces of the dream eluded him. _I will become a Jedi_, he told himself. _I'll return to Tatooine and then I'll free them all, and Mum. And then no one will ever be a slave again._

"But?" Gallia prodded, and Anakin realised he'd faltered mid-setence, saw the flicker of concern in her eyes.

"But Mum taught me," he said, firmly, and then clammed up. He wanted to talk, to tell her about how wonderful his mum was, how Shmi knew everything about the stars and planets and treating wounds and what she called 'nebulae' and 'pulsars' and 'black holes'; and that she taught him his figures at night, with a small glowtorch, using their water flask to magnify their scant light. But he looked at her and he couldn't bring himself to tell Gallia all that. She was on the Council, he knew. She disapproved of him.

When it was clear that he wasn't going to say anything more, Master Gallia simply nodded and went over to speak with the librarian, a tall woman, stately, with greying hair; some of which escaped the braid she'd put it in.

Anakin trailed after her, feeling like an unwanted add-on. As Master Gallia and the librarian continued to speak, he glanced cautiously at them and decided they weren't looking at him. He snuck away, as quietly as he could, tiptoeing for a random row of shelves, towards the far right. As he heard no outcry, no indication that he'd been detected, he found himself grinning wildly. This was more like it! He darted among the shelves, scanning shelf-labels and book spines. He'd thought libraries were dusty places, but this one seemed to have been kept meticulously clean.

It was by sheer luck that he stumbled upon the fifth shelf to the right, almost hidden behind a tall shelf full of references to Naboo law. It was a mess that hadn't been tackled: books were strewn all over the carpeted floor of the library.

He bent down, frowning at them. Books on Tatooine were made from cheap pulp paper: the sort you could get by mashing the flesh of the mawaa cactus. It was more efficient than datapads or holobooks too: the sand always got everywhere—in eyes, in clothing, and in circuits. He hadn't expected the palace library to have books too, and as he tentatively picked one up, he realised that the pages were smooth and creamy, nothing like the rough grain of the mawaa pulp paper.

It creaked though, as he leafed through it, and realised in dismay that the characters were nothing like the Basic his mum had taught him. Why would someone mess up the shelves, Anakin wondered.

He answered himself a moment later: _because they were looking for something, dustbrains!_ But then, looking for what? He sifted through the pile of books but most of them involved that same script he couldn't read. Then, Anakin discovered one book he _could_. He leafed through it at random before settling down to try and read it.

"The King or Queen of Naboo must be elected by the Council of Five," he read, picking out one line. "With a simple majority sufficient to elevate the candidate to the throne of Naboo for the rest of their years. Previously, the Reigning Monarch was elected by the Council of Four, but then the Deadlock of 577AS proved that the Council representatives were wont to…" he scanned the rest of the book and sighed. It was _boring_, dusty and dry, rambling on about the rules and conditions required to elect a King or Queen of Naboo and try as he might, Anakin couldn't see Padmé having been elected—was she even elected?—on the basis of those rules. He frowned. Some of the words had been unfamiliar, too. It seemed strange to elect a king or queen, he thought, closing the book. Kings or Queens just _were_. In the stories, they were born to the throne. Their blood made them royal. Wasn't it what made them different from people like Gardulla the Hutt, or the Senators of the Republic?

"I see you've found the stack," said an unfamiliar voice, and Anakin started. He glanced up to realise that the librarian had come over to him, thin lips pressed together in disapproval. Gallia stood beside her, arms folded over her chest. The problem with those Jedi Masters, Anakin decided, was that it was _impossible_ to tell what they were thinking.

Even Obi-Wan got like that, sometimes. But then the rest of the time, there was this distant, torn look in his eyes, and then you knew he was thinking about Qui-Gon.

"It's a terrible business," the librarian went on. "I kept informing the Queen that security cameras ought to be installed in the library, but the security budget has never quite permitted it…" she shook her head. "In any event: I first noticed the disruption yesterday. Someone had accessed the library and broken into that particular stack. Books were everywhere on the floor when I entered. Such a mess." She scowled at the books strewn on the floor, clicking her tongue in disapproval.

Gallia was frowning. She said, "What is in that stack?"

"That?" the librarian asked. "Books. Very old manuscripts, most of them pertaining to the history of Naboo." Gently, she picked up the book that Anakin had discarded, stroking it lightly on the spine. "This one, for instance. It's an account of the role of the Council of Five—today, they're just referred to as the Five—" out of the corner of his eye, Anakin thought he saw surprise flash across Gallia's calm features. She seemed to stiffen slightly. "—but they have long roots that trace to the old Naboo practice of electing their Kings and Queens by nominating a pool of suitable candidates who would be accepted or rejected by a vote from the Council of Five."

"Essentially, a bicameral system, then," Gallia said.

The librarian nodded. "A very old one, of course. It's been easily centuries since the Maréan Reforms first abolished the Council of Five and allowed for direct planetary voting. Although the term limits, as you doubtless know, are a far more recent policy, championed and signed into the constitution by the Queen herself."

Anakin blinked. The _what?_

Perhaps sensing his confusion, Gallia explained, "The Queen of Naboo—or the King—" she corrected herself, "—has an existing term limit of four years. She's elected into power by the people, and after four years, she must step down."

Anakin blinked again. He tried to imagine someone like Gardulla the Hutt or Watto doing that, and just couldn't. "What if they don't?"

The librarian said, "What do you mean?"

"You know," he said, slightly frustrated. "I mean, what if they just decide they like being Queen or King, and decide they're not going to step down?"

"It would be unconstitutional," the librarian said. "They would almost certainly have to be removed from office."

"Who's going to make them?"

Her lip twitching in what might've been amusement, Gallia said, "The people of Naboo might appeal to the Senate for assistance, through their Senator. Or they might directly seek Jedi assistance. In which case, the Order would send a Jedi to settle the situation. In the very best scenario, the Queen or King agrees to step down peacefully."

"Otherwise?" Anakin asked.

The librarian put the book she was holding back on the shelf.

"Things get messy," Gallia said. "And sometimes, there's no right answer."

Anakin thought about that, long and hard. "I'm not sure that's a good thing," he said, quietly.

"I'm not entirely sure of that myself," Gallia admitted.

* * *

"Well?" Even asked.

Plo Koon let out a quiet breath, filtered through the black antiox breath mask he wore. His face was tinted blue from the light of the data terminal screen. "Well," he replied at last, "You're lucky Resnik wasn't that much of a slicer."

"Meaning?" Obi-Wan asked, peering at the lines of code streaming across the data terminal. As much as he'd passed his slicing classes back in the Temple, he could not make head or tail of what the Kel Dor Master was doing. It was, he thought, bemused at the analogy, like asking a youngling to counter one of the advanced-level whirling kick sequences from Ataru.

"What else?" Even wanted to know. "You hire it out, Kenobi. To someone more competent. How's that good for us?"

Plo said, "He went to Orvij &amp; Parek. A very, very famous data security firm. They hire some of the best slicers in the galaxy to work for them; known slicers, of course. In the Deep HoloNet, there's always someone better." He kept keying in commands, working as he spoke.

"What's the Deep Holonet?" Obi-Wan asked. "I've never heard of it before."

A sound came over Plo's breath mask that might've been a snort. "You wouldn't. It's in one of the higher level slicing modules the Temple offers. Imagine a lake," he said. "You want to find a Selonian Yellow-whisker, so you trawl through the lake with a fishing net, looking for it. Now, imagine your fishing net is so well-calibrated that it catches only things that fit the parameters of what you consider to be a Selonian Yellow-whisker."

Obi-Wan nodded.

"The Deep Holonet is whatever your fishing net can't reach," Plo said, shortly. "Maybe because your net is too short. It's everything out there—a sheer wealth of information on the Holonet that standard search engines can't locate, for all sorts of reasons. Lots of excellent slicers operate on the Deep 'Net. There's bound to be someone better than the Orvij &amp; Parek crew when you look there."

"What about you?" Even asked.

Plo shook his head. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe not. The good news is, I've cracked O&amp;P encryption before. But this one's somewhat different. Still, I have some contacts on the Deep 'Net. I'll feed them some of this, see if we can crack this fast. I've already transmitted the contents back to the Temple. We have a few very good slicers there." He leaned back in his seat, fingers steepled, and gazed at the other Jedi. "The thing is, O&amp;P protection doesn't come cheap."

"We already knew that Resnik was very good at what he did," Obi-Wan countered.

Plo Koon shook his head; the gesture solemn. "Not this kind of money," he said, and named a figure that made Obi-Wan goggle at him. "O&amp;P slicers work primarily for business magnates; people who want to keep their dealings safe from corporate espionage. Most small-time bounty hunters, as good as Resnik might be, can't afford their services. Not even with his earnings from the Lithun contract."

"So the data pad isn't likely to be his," Obi-Wan said, frowning. "Or at least, a _client_ provided him with this kind of security."

They traded glances. "I think," Even said, at last, "Looking very closely at the Five might be a good idea."

"Do they even have that kind of money?" Obi-Wan wondered, still amazed. Naboo was, after all, a small planet and what counted as wealth and power on Naboo did not necessarily translate into assets across the galaxy.

"Likely not," Even Piell said, grimly. "But I'm betting the Trade Federation does." He turned to Plo. "Think you can pull up some of those transaction records?"

"Possibly," Plo said. "But risky, given the laws on Naboo about citizen privacy. It'd be easier to pull up the finance records of the Trade Federation from their last few audits and have Ki-Adi-Mundi scan through them for any sign of tampering. I'll do that now."

Obi-Wan's comlink signalled and he quickly answered it. "Kenobi," he identified himself.

"_This is Mace Windu,_" replied the stern voice. _"The Queen is requesting your presence in the private audience chamber."_

"I'll be on my way, Master," Obi-Wan said, signing out.

* * *

The private audience chamber was a small but opulently designed room adjoining the throne room; mahogany-panelled and carpeted with many ornamental vases and sculptures lined with streaked marble. Obi-Wan noticed a mosaic on one wall of the chamber.

Queen Amidala was already there; flanked by Mace Windu. Two of her handmaidens were in the same room, but quietly retreated so as to be unobstrusive.

"Jedi Kenobi," she said, nodding to him. "I understand that I am to congratulate you."

"Thank you, your Highness," he said, with a polite bow. At that moment, Obi-Wan could not say that becoming a Jedi Knight felt like an achievement; in fact, he thought, he felt he'd paid far too high a price for the distinction.

"Representatives from the Five have requested an audience with the Queen," Mace Windu stated.

"Is this unusual?" Obi-Wan wanted to know.

"Hardly," Queen Amidala said. "At least, not as a request. Citizens of Naboo have the right to request an audience with their Queen, and I have heard the Five out often enough."

"The timing, however, gives me reason to pause," Mace said. "That the Five should seek an audience with the Queen two days after Naboo has been freed seems unusually swift of them. Particularly at a time when all efforts might reasonably be expected to be devoted towards rebuilding and mourning." He looked at the Queen, who nodded, seeming to agree with whatever decision had been reached when Obi-Wan wasn't in the room. "Obi-Wan," he said, "We want you to remain in the throne room as an unobtrusive bodyguard when the representatives from the Five arrive for their audience with the Queen. Study their expressions, and report your impressions after the audience."

Obi-Wan nodded, taking it in. "How much time do I have to prepare?"

"A standard hour, no more," the Queen said. Even behind the painted mask, her distaste was clear. "Wealth and connections buy swifter audiences than most. Even a Queen daren't ignore the Five completely."

"I've been examining the records," Mace explained, holding out a tiny, black data-stick in his hand, "And have compiled together a short briefing—no more than twenty minutes—of what you need to know."

Obi-Wan nodded again. "I will study it," he said. As an apprentice, there were times when he'd had to make a very quick study of available materials before proceeding to a negotiation or a new mission with Qui-Gon. It wasn't common, but it happened. Padawan Learners were trained in quick recall and memorisation and the assimilation of data, just as they were trained in so many other skills.

He accepted the data-stick from the Korun Jedi Master. "Is there a place where I might review the information?" he asked, and was guided to the side of the audience chamber.

"The Queen will prepare for her public audience here," the handmaiden explained, as Mace Windu exchanged farewells with the Queen and strode out of the chamber, his dun Jedi robe flapping about his ankle as he left.

Obi-Wan wondered, for a moment, what Mace Windu was doing. And then he firmly shut out that thought and focused on the task at hand.

* * *

"You know," Anakin grumbled, "I'm pretty sure I'm old enough to take care of myself."

"By whose standards?" Gallia asked, unruffled.

Anakin just stared at her. "Does that matter?" he demanded, huffily.

Gallia raised both hands, palms upwards, in a silent shrug. _You tell me,_ that gesture seemed to say.

Anakin sighed and looked down at his data-reader. She'd gotten him a number of e-books from the library, sure. Most of them were on dead boring things like the basics of politics and elections and proportional representation systems and majoritarian systems and all Anakin could think was that Padmé had to be sun-crazy if she wanted to _deal_ with all that stuff.

But of course; she was Padmé. Her people mattered to her. She sounded sad everytime they'd spoken about them dying and being killed by the Trade Federation. And then he thought: doesn't it make you _angry_, to think about all the other slaves?

So maybe they were both alike after all. But then the next, obvious conclusion was that if he wasn't sun-crazy for wanting to come back as a Jedi and free all the slaves, then maybe Padmé wasn't sun-crazy for wanting to do all those politics things if she thought that could save her people.

He sighed, woefully. Things, Anakin thought, had been so wonderfully _un_-complicated before Padmé and Mister Qui-Gon had come.

Except that it wasn't a _bad_ thing, though. Was it?

He stared suspiciously at Gallia. She had closed her eyes, and was sitting in a strange cross-legged posture he'd never seen before.

"Yes, Anakin?"

She still hadn't opened her eyes.

Anakin sighed and scrolled through the list of e-books. There _had_ to be a text that was more interesting, he thought. Or he could—he froze. The data-reader was, after all, a modified data-pad, meant less for personal computing than to access and read texts. But maybe he could modify it; tweak it so he could code on it.

He tried to hide his grin. _That_ would be fun, if he could do something like that. It seemed like a worthwhile challenge. He'd always been better with building things than with programming them. When he'd worked on C-3PO, he'd had to cobble together the algorithms, bit by painstaking bit from snatches of code he'd cannibalised off an aging translator-droid that Watto had him repair.

Could he do something like this here? Write a program that he hadn't taken from elsewhere?

There was, Anakin reflected, really only one way to find out.

* * *

Obi-Wan's first impression was that the representatives from the Five seemed similar. He chose to leave his hood down. A quick tug rumpled his tunic and he shifted his utility belt so Qui-Gon's lightsaber was set at an awkward angle.

Queen Amidala glanced over at him, and her lips twitched. She'd noticed his efforts, then. He wasn't supposed to speak, as her assigned protector, so instead, he stared blandly back and allowed the sleeves of his robe to droop loosely over his hands, as though it was far too big for him.

If the robe was a darker hue than the usual robe he wore—well, no one commented on it. A Jedi did not get sentimentally attached, but it felt, even then, as though Qui-Gon's presence was here, now, enfolding him in his robe.

Did it ever get better? He wondered, distantly. Did the pain ever go? He remembered the blankness in his Master's gaze, as he sat by Tahl's side, cradling her hand in his; strangely gentle. He remembered the way a flash of sudden pain would come over Qui-Gon and he would withdraw into himself as they passed a location in the Temple that held particular meaning for himself and Tahl.

What did you do for grief, he wanted to ask. But now Qui-Gon was gone; he felt rudderless, drifting. What are you doing, Kenobi? he asked himself. He'd agreed to take Anakin as his Padawan and he didn't know the first thing about teaching. He was, in many ways, still very much a Padawan Learner, for all the braid on his right shoulder had been severed. Traditionally, the Padawan's nerf-tail should've been discreetly sheared off afterwards—it was the Master's responsibility, but Qui-Gon had not been here to do that for him either, and it seemed that it had either been forgotten among all the concerns pressing upon the Jedi Council, or just as likely, none of them had felt they had the right to assume Qui-Gon's prerogative.

He closed his eyes, and then composed himself as the representatives from the Five entered the throne room. He scanned them with a Jedi's trained gaze, taking in all the relevant details and sorting them out in his mind for later analysis.

One of them walked slightly before the rest. She was, thought Obi-Wan, likely the leader of this group. She was tall and human, like most of the Naboo, with pale hair that was cropped just above her shoulders and almost-colourless eyes. Her clothing was tasteful silk of a dark colour, and whispered as she moved. Likely Ottegan silk, Obi-Wan thought. Ottegan silk was both expensive and did not gleam in the light. In addition, Ottegan silk _stank_ awfully when it burned. He'd had cause to discover that, on a mission with Qui-Gon. That, then, was likely to be Sirdaé, the young and ruthless head of the Ersken family.

At her shoulder, but a pace slower was a man with squat, powerful shoulders, darkeyed. He moved, however, with a casual, graceful arrogance that immediately set off warning bells in Obi-Wan's head. Their eyes met; the man smirked. He'd taken in all the signs of disorder: Obi-Wan's sleeves, his rumpled tunic and badly-fastened utility belt, and dismissed him as a symbol, nothing more.

It was just as well, Obi-Wan thought dryly, that the word on the street was that the Jedi had helped to free Naboo, not that Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi had killed the first Sith Lord to appear in millenia.

As each of them offered no more than the tiniest of bows to the Queen in polite greeting, Obi-Wan counted off the other members of the group. Besides Sirdaé Ersken and the arrogant man—whom Obi-Wan decided was Ren Yvar, the pampered family heir, there was another woman: aging gracefully, with threads of grey in her dark hair. He noticed that her hands were callused and had difficulty placing her until a gleam of silver and a glitter of opalescent fire around her neck indicated that this was Jurité of the Velarra family, which controlled most of Naboo's mineral wealth in form of opal and malachite mines. The man who wore thin, wire-rimmed spectacles and a loose cravat was likely to be Iben Derriva; of the family which had connections everywhere in the Naboo legislature and judiciary.

That made the last member of the group the representative of the Helukala family: a short, compact, woman with curling dark hair tied at the nape of her neck. Her eyes glinted a bright, amused hazel with flecks of gold.

"I greet each of you," Queen Amidala said, to each of them. "What is your concern, then?"

It was as though Qui-Gon stood, once again, at Obi-Wan's shoulder, urging him to pay attention to the slightest of movements that indicated a being's thoughts and inclinations. _See how most of them glance towards Ersken, Padawan,_ he imagined his Master saying. _She entered the room at the head of them, if only by a fraction. She therefore has influence._ Or: _see how Nurié Helukala shifts so she presents herself as leaning away from Ersken. She does not want to be associated, however unconsciously, with her. Pay attention to divisions beneath seeming unity, Padawan. They can be revealing._

I hear you, Master, Obi-Wan thought.

Sirdaé said, smoothly, "It has come to our attention"—she was speaking for the Five, then, Obi-Wan noted—"that an attempt has been made on the life of a Jedi on the palace grounds, as well as of the head of your security. Naturally, the first concern of the Five was to express our consternation, and our hopes that both Captain Panaka and the Jedi in question—" her eyes flicked, she couldn't help it, to where Obi-Wan stood at the side of the throne, "—are in fact, unharmed."

Some people thought the Jedi could sense falsehood. This was not quite the case: some Jedi were better at sensing distress, for the lack of a better word. They could tell when another being was dissembling. But this often took a stronger connection to the Living Force than Obi-Wan had.

Qui-Gon, he thought. His Master was skilled at this use of the Force.

His instincts did not tell him anything. And in any case, if he'd wanted to play the intimidation card, he'd lost the opportunity by going about things the wrong way. Instead, he'd decided on taking the other strategy: having them write him off as being a callow, inexperienced Knight.

Ren Yvar said, still with that casual arrogance, "We have, of course, not been involved in such terrible acts. Our relation with the Monarchy of Naboo remains strong, and, we hope, deep and fruitful."

Queen Amidala gazed at the assembled group. "So I may hope," she said, a statement that said very little. "The incident is being investigated, at present."

"It is our hope that the perpetrators will be brought to swift justice," Sirdaé said, "For all that no harm was done to your person."

"I assure you," Queen Amidala said, and now the coolness in her voice was noticeable, "I take all attempts—whether on my life or those on the lives of my people—with all due seriousness."

"We came, as well, to offer our assistance," Iben Derriva spoke up. He was adjusting his cravat—_a nervous gesture?_ Obi-Wan wondered, and filed it away for further thought. "If the Monarchy has any needs in this affair, we will render all possible aid to ensure that justice is served. We do not approve—" and his displeasure did in fact tinge his words with the cold, sharp quality of durasteel, "—of such acts."

"Your offers have been noted," Queen Amidala said. "And indeed, I would at the very least expect full cooperation with the Monarchy in this matter as we open investigations."

"But of course," Iben replied.

Jurité said, "I represent, as well, the concerns of the Velarra, who suffered the most difficulty under Trade Federation occupation. And indeed, before that."

"Explain," Queen Amidala said.

"The Trade Federation have been plundering the mines in the northlands," Jurité explained, "Particularly near the cities of Haleen and Sarino. Recently, deposits of ionite have been discovered in the Third Deep mines in the region." Obi-Wan hid his frown. He remembered the value—and the properties—of ionite all too well, from a mission to Bandomeer. "Ionite," she was explaining to the Queen, "Is very rare and valuable, so it was a surprise to all of us when it was discovered on Naboo. Quantities of the mineral are used in weapons that can simply eat through shielding without any possible defence against it."

Queen Amidala frowned and leaned forward. "You are saying," she said, "That the Trade Federation has come in possession of large quantities of an expensive mineral used to make weapons that ignore personal or capital ship shielding?"

"Size doesn't matter, your Highness," Jurité said, unaware that she'd just repeated a common Jedi saying. "Given sufficient quantities of ionite, any electrical or plasma shield can be eaten through. Ionite disrupts both positive and negative charges. That's the problem."

The Queen's lips firmed. "Thank you for bringing the matter to our attention."

Jurité said, "The Velarra family has suffered considerable amounts of losses due to the Trade Federation plundering of our mines. We request that suitable compensation be factored into the negotiations, and that the Monarchy recognise our ownership of the mines."

Queen Amidala said, "What of the ownership papers?"

"Destroyed during the invasion," Jurité replied. For all her calm, Obi-Wan saw the anger in her eyes, heard it in her voice. "The Trade Federation decided that our ownership papers were worth nothing and tore them up and then contracted out the mines to various subcontractors in the cities of Haleen and Sarino, who now insist they have rights to continue mining _and_ to the mines itself."

"This," Amidala informed her, "Is a dispute which needs to be heard in a court. Not before me."

Obi-Wan caught the heated glance that passed between Jurité Velarra and Iben Derriva. A rivalry there? Or perhaps it was something else.

"Your Highness," Jurité said, the words clipped. "The Velarra family hears your ruling. But we are disappointed with the decision."

"Your disappointment is noted," Amidala replied.

The meeting continued; disputes over land and wealth brought up before the Queen, who deftly sidestepped each of these, protesting that the necessary papers were required, that the disputes had to be brought up before the appropriate courts, with the minor concession that if their grievances would also be lodged against the Trade Federation in the galactic courts.

Finally, the hour wore to a conclusion, and Queen Amidala announced that the audience was over. They exchanged polite farewells, and the representatives of the Five made their way out of the throne room. In the Force, Obi-Wan had the sense that most of them were—dissatisfied was the best word he could put to it. But was that enough to hire a bounty hunter?

Stop assuming, he told himself. The fact remained that Resnik had not tried to kill Queen Amidala. He'd tried to kill Obi-Wan and Captain Panaka. He was missing something.

The Queen glanced over at him. "Well?" she asked, with a raised eyebrow.

Almost unconsciously, Obi-Wan adjusted his tunic, straightened his utility belt, and shrugged out of Qui-Gon's robes, folding them over an arm with relief. His Master, he thought ruefully, had been a notable human tree. He thought about his response, and then opted for honesty. "Much does not make sense, your Highness."

"Any reason why, Jedi Kenobi?"

"If the Five have as appreciable an amount of influence as Master Windu's briefing claims," Obi-Wan said evenly, "They should not have had as unsuccessful an audience as they did. But in fact, they spent most of the time bringing up complaints that they should know they had little reason to see granted."

"I admit," the Queen said, after a short pause, "Some of it is due to me. As a young Queen who has only recently assumed the Monarchy, many of them seek to try their luck, as one might put it—to see what they can get out of me." Her smile was not particularly warm. "That _does_ allow me to get away with what an older Monarch would not. They tell themselves I'm young and reckless but don't lean as heavily as they can. And you may have noticed: it's easy to pit them against each other. If the Five came together on an issue, I would find it very difficult not to accede. But when it's the Derrivas against the Velarras against the Yvar…" she waved a hand in a dismissive gesture.

"So I surmised," Obi-Wan replied. He offered her a nod. "That was impressive, your Highness." He thought he could understand how she felt: he'd done as much, playing on their perceptions and biases in that audience, allowing them to dismiss him at once.

He thought she might've coloured, faintly. "Thank you for your kindness, Jedi Kenobi," she said, at last. She stood up from the throne, wincing slightly. "Sitting there too long gives me aches," she said, an admission that startled him in its frankness. "But I suspect that perhaps that was the intention of King Tariyal the Liberal, all those centuries ago. No one, I believe, should sit too comfortably on a throne."

"You believe deeply in democracy, do you not?"

The Queen looked at him. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I do. I believe that the only way a Monarchy can work is if it is—as this one is—encircled with so many constraints that an elected representative of the people's will can never abuse that power."

"Many beings do," Obi-Wan said. It was something he had come to understand, across over a decade of missions with Qui-Gon. Some of them had taken him to the darkest places in the galaxy; others to perfectly ordinary places. And in all of them, he had seen how lust and greed could corrupt people, could make them do the unthinkable. How oppression could arise from those.

"I know," Queen Amidala replied. "But the day we stop believing in democracy is the day it truly dies. I would not see that day come in my lifetime."

There was nothing Obi-Wan could say to that. Instead, he bowed to her. And then he turned to leave.

"Wait."

That request caught him. He drew up, waiting.

"The funeral will be held tomorrow evening," Queen Amidala said. "I'd have arranged it for tonight, but with Anakin's kidnapping and the assassin…" she sighed. "In any case, the new Supreme Chancellor will be arriving late tomorrow afternoon, and has expressed his wish to attend the funeral. For now…his body lies with all appropriate honours in the Tariyalean Room. I will have someone show you there, if you wish."

He pressed his lips together. "Thank you, your Highness," Obi-Wan managed, at last. "I very much…" he had to try again. "I would very much appreciate that."

* * *

_A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed. Indeed, RL struck back for a while (what with a whole administration mess, the joys of being a graduating student), and I've been stalling on this, but I've gotten a decent amount written out and do intend to push through to finish things, eventually. I hope you've enjoyed this installment!_


	8. Test of the Heart

**In All The World**

Summary: The story of how Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tamed each other, from Naboo to Anakin's early days at the Temple. Slow-building Anakin/Obi-Wan friendship.

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Test of the Heart**

The Tariyalean room was a small, austere room of marble; bright mosaics decorated every wall and Obi-Wan was certain his boots echoed on the flooring. There was little else, here. One of the walls had a small window of stained glass. The lights had been respectfully set to a dim level, but he could see the stone bier laid out in the centre of the chamber.

And the fallen man who lay atop it.

He took one step, and then another. Found himself on his knees by his Master's cold body, Jedi serenity reft at once like a piece of thin gauzy cloth. How had he been keeping it together?

It was as if the weight of his loss came crashing down on Obi-Wan, all at once, and he didn't know how he was going to keep bearing up underneath it. His Master had been his rock, his anchor. He'd relied on Qui-Gon to know what the correct action in a situation was; Qui-Gon's focus seemed unflappable and his Master always had a plan.

Now, he was all on his own.

Qui-Gon had insisted Anakin be trained. He'd sensed something in the boy, that was for sure. Obi-Wan did not share Qui-Gon's certainties; for all he'd had some contact with Anakin, for all he knew of Anakin's prodigious strength in the Force, he felt nothing but uncertainty about Anakin's future. He was, perhaps, not strong enough in the Living Force to be able to read the boy.

He admitted this as well, as he kept silent vigil by his Master's side. Qui-Gon was _sure;_ that was the one thing that had characterised his Master. He knew what he was going to do, and then he did it. That had earned him a not-undeserved reputation as a rebel and a maverick, but Qui-Gon's unorthodox decisions were often made in reverence of the Living Force. Everyone knew this. It was why despite his numerous differences with the Council, they had often allowed Qui-Gon enough slack to follow his instincts and the promptings of where the Living Force had led him.

Qui-Gon could train Anakin, Obi-Wan thought. He felt…lost. Overwhelmed. He rubbed at his eyes with his hands.

It was like trying to fill a robe a few sizes too big for him to fit. Qui-Gon had trained him but he wasn't Qui-Gon.

The first hour of his vigil brought doubts and fears. The second brought regrets: they'd begun to clash, of late. Their arguments over Anakin were simply the most recent and by far the worst, but by no means the first or last. Their disagreements had increased in frequency in the last two years of his apprenticeship, but they'd always resolved them soon after. He'd apologised to his Master, as was his place, but all the same, some of his doubts had lingered.

How did you get over knowing that a day or so after your most heated dispute, your Master was dead?

He should've run faster. Should've opened himself more to the Force. Should not have exhausted himself with flashy attacks; should've taken less chances. Should've stayed by his Master's side. If he hadn't been separated from Qui-Gon, the Sith could not have so exhausted him and struck him down. He _knew_ this. It was why the Sith had chosen his ground so carefully.

Do not mourn for those who are transformed into the Force, Yoda had once said. Luminous beings we are, not this crude matter! He punctuated the point with a sharp rap of his gimer stick on Obi-Wan's shin. _There is no death, there is the Force_.

He knew that, and still he knelt, and still he felt the pain—a physical thing, clawing at his chest and throat as he breathed. His vision blurred, but there was, after all, no one here with him. He was allowed a private space, alone with his Master and his grief.

Qui-Gon had that, he remembered. He had wondered what his Master had done, on that long, uneasy flight back to the Temple. Qui-Gon had sat in the part of the consular ship where Tahl's body was, accompanied by flowers native to New Aspolon.

He had not said a single word. Obi-Wan hadn't known what to do.

"Give him space," Bant had said.

Now, he was on the other end; across the gap of years, he wondered. Wondered what Qui-Gon had done then, wondered what Qui-Gon had felt. Wondered if that was what it meant to be grieving: to feel as though his heart had been clawed out of his chest, to feel as though he was hollow and it was an emptiness that was never, ever going to go away.

To feel that it was the hardest thing in the world to simply breathe and he didn't know when this was going to ever end.

From his tunic pocket, he pulled out the assassin's knife. It didn't seem entirely _appropriate_, but Obi-Wan recognised folded Shivaani steel when he saw it. A knife made of Shivaani steel following the traditional methods was easily worth a handful of Corusca gems. And he wasn't about to pilfer a bread knife from the kitchen for this purpose.

It was hard to do this without a mirror, without Qui-Gon's large and gentle hands performing the action, but Obi-Wan brought the Shivaani knife up to his Padawan's nerf-tail.

The knife was sharp. It took barely a touch, before the remains of his nerf-tail were collapsing forlornly on the marble. He scooped it up, painstakingly, included the blue cloth tie that he'd used.

Gently, he prised open Qui-Gon's stiff fingers, left the severed hair in them.

"You did it, Master," he murmured. "I didn't turn to the Dark Side. I'm a Jedi Knight, now." He swallowed past the lump in his throat. "We did it," he amended. "I just wish…"

He couldn't speak.

* * *

How long had it been? An hour? Two hours? A day?

He knelt. It was impossible to count the passage of the hours in the sensory-deprivation chamber. The darkness was pervasive. He could not so much as make out where his hands were. He could not feel himself; he could not feel the texture of the chamber floor. The silence, after a while, wore on him. It seemed an easy task, when Qui-Gon had first briefed him. He had, after all, been making progress in his meditation sessions.

But now, the silence ground against his very soul. He tried remembering when he last heard someone speak. He almost broke his silence, said, "I am Obi-Wan Kenobi. I am the Padawan Learner to Master Qui-Gon Jinn."

But the silence in the chamber was absolute, and he could not even hear himself speak. Could not even hear the beating of his heart, could not hear the sound of his breathing. He was neither warm nor cold; either would have been a sensation, would've been a welcome deviation from the emptiness. And after another unendurable duration of time, he wondered if his Master had forgotten about him.

In some of the rumours younglings whispered to each other after lights-out in the dormitories, it was said that Padawans had undertaken the Telva'shel'annar, the Test of Shadows for as long as five days. It was one of the strictest of tests, offered only to Senior Padawans. Obi-Wan had felt honoured when his Master had deemed him ready for it, but only after many misgivings and discussions with the Temple Mind-Healers.

He had wondered—as all Padawans did—what was so secret, so important about the Telva'shel'annar. Even the Trials were discussed; Padawans often talked about what their yearmates or seniors had done for their Trials. But no one; absolutely no one discussed their Telva'shel'annar. Even Qui-Gon had, after a long pause, informed Obi-Wan that he could not speak of it. "You'll understand," he said.

After so long in the sensory-deprivation chamber, Obi-Wan thought he did.

Maybe I'm dead.

The thought came, all of a sudden. Maybe he'd died on a mission somewhere and he was a ghost haunting both the Temple and his Master. Was this what it felt like to be dead?

He tried to pinch himself, to take away the sudden, dizzying sense of dislocation.

Nothing.

_But you have the Force_. He wasn't sure if he had spoken up, if he had remembered the first lesson, taught—so long ago, it seemed—in his days in the crèche. _The Force is your ally; the Force is always with you_.

He reached out to the Force, drank it in, greedily. It was clouded by his own anxieties and fears, but it still flowed into him, sluggishly. He wondered if he could get a sense of his Master's presence and reached out in the Force, trying to touch Qui-Gon.

Nothing.

He could sometimes sense where Qui-Gon was; could tell what his Master was thinking, what he was feeling. Their bond was unusually close for a Jedi team and Obi-Wan had come to rely on it.

But now, he wasn't sure anymore. It was as if a bedrock certainty had been yanked out from under his feet, and he was falling in the dark.

I don't want to take the Telva'shel'annar anymore, he thought. It was something he knew: you didn't pass or fail the Telva'shel'annar. Apprentices could refuse to take it. Some of them did. Others pulled out in the middle of the Telva'shel'annar, either for their own safety, or because the supervising Masters were concerned about their safety.

They had not yet made any effort to withdraw him.

A second thought entered his mind: Qui-Gon had taken the Telva'shel'annar. His Master, too, had endured the sensory-deprivation chamber, and he had not broken. Obi-Wan could do no less.

This resolve lasted the next few minutes. Or perhaps, the next few hours.

He thought he saw things in the darkness: a garnant, scuttling across the floor. The bright blaze of a lightsaber blade in his vision. All of them revealed swiftly as hallucinations. It was one of the things covered in his classes, about solitary confinement. It broke prisoners swiftly, said the Master taking the class. She watched them gravely. It is cruel, she said, but it is a reality of the galaxy you will have to face.

Maybe he wasn't dead, Obi-Wan thought. A Jedi Master by the name of Na-Shel Talin had written about a dream in which he was a flittermoth, and he had awoken to uncertainty. _Am I a flittermoth dreaming he is a man, or a man dreaming he is a flittermoth?_

Was there anything more to the Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi than a dream?

Only the void seemed real. Perhaps, Obi-Wan thought, I am something else, being dreamed. I am the fragments of someone else's story. _Perhaps_, wrote Na-Shel Talin, _we are nothing more than dreams of the Force_._ All else is fleeting shadows_.

Obi-Wan wasn't sure when the voice spoke up. After all, he wasn't sure how long he'd been in there. _Surely the supervising Masters will sense that it's been too long,_ he thought.

"What do you feel?" Qui-Gon asked.

He considered the question. Qui-Gon's voice, he thought, was deep and calm. He marvelled at its tone; the way he would've considered a work of art. "Nothing," Obi-Wan said. He still could not hear himself speak. And then: "Relief."

Qui-Gon said, "Why do you feel relief?"

"I was afraid," Obi-Wan said. "I was afraid that I had been forgotten. I was afraid that I no longer existed."

"Why did you fear?"

"There was nothing," Obi-Wan replied. "I began to feel that I, too, was nothingness."

"Why fear emptiness?"

Obi-Wan said, "Because the self is the last, most certain, truth, for all beings, in the face of all uncertainty."

Qui-Gon continued. "Why cling to the self?" It was an old Jedi technique: this pattern of interrogative questions and responses, designed to lead pupils to truths they needed to comprehend for themselves.

"Because the assumption of self is the first assumption," Obi-Wan replied. Drawing on Jedi teachings was permitted; the only demand was absolute honesty on the part of the Padawan.

He _felt_ it, now. The void had entered him, in a deep and profound way. He was shaken. This was the Telva'shel'annar, the Dissolution of the Self.

"Why then assume it?"

Obi-Wan considered that question. "Do not assume a falsehood," he offered, instead. He might've been kneeling. If this exchange had come as part of their daily meditation sessions, he would've spoken; hands resting lightly on his knees. He did not know what position he had assumed. "Reject assumptions known to be false."

"What then remains?"

This answer, at least, was easy. "The Force."

"Recite the Jedi Code," Qui-Gon instructed.

"There is no emotion, there is peace."

"Explain."

"Emotion is transitory," Obi-Wan said. "Anger fades. Hatred erodes."

"Does impermanence not imply momentary existence?"

Obi-Wan shook his head, or thought he did. "No," he said. "That statement presumes the coherence of existence. But that is illusion."

"Why presume?"

Shrouded in emptiness, Obi-Wan imagined the infuriatingly calm expression on Qui-Gon's face. "It is the world we are born into," he said, at last, knowing that he would not be considered to be expressing himself in a proper way. "The assumption of existence is a condition for our being in the world. The Code asks us to question this; to transcend this and to realise that we are all reflections of the Force. There is no self." He drew a deep breath, tried to bring himself back to Qui-Gon's original question. "There is no emotion because emotion is transitory; generated by the fixation of the mind on the ephemeral. Emotion, therefore, emerges from unreality. The Jedi does not cling to emotion. The Jedi transcends it, and seeks peace."

"Is seeking not craving?" Qui-Gon responded.

A mis-step; he'd been imprecise previously and his Master had picked up on it. "We are not saints but seekers," Obi-Wan responded, drawing upon another Jedi saying. "To seek does not necessitate being steered by craving."

"State the next line of the Code, apprentice."

"There is no ignorance, there is knowledge." He recalled Master Yoda, guiding them in their very first recitation of the Code, back when he was a youngling in the crèche, not yet an Initiate.

"Explain."

"Ignorance is a no-thing," Obi-Wan said, remembering sessions on the Code with Master Fasren. "An absence cannot be regarded as an entity; cannot be a thing in itself. Ignorance, therefore, is merely the veil drawn over the unenlightened mind. To discard ignorance is to draw back this veil, to allow the Force to enlighten and to clarify."

"You say that ignorance is not a thing," Qui-Gon replied. "And then you say ignorance is a veil obscuring enlightenment. You contradict yourself."

"The language of metaphor is imprecise," Obi-Wan retorted. "Contradictions are a necessary step on the path to truth. They invite the seeker to question; to test claims."

"Continue with the Code, apprentice." Qui-Gon was definitely _not_ amused by that last response.

"There is no passion, there is serenity."

"Explain."

"Passions are an attachment," said Obi-Wan. "To be moved by pleasure and desire is to suffer pain in their absence, for passions are merely transient. In this way, those who are driven by passion are fettered by the chains of their own suffering. The Jedi recognises this and seeks to move beyond passion."

"Without passion," Qui-Gon countered, "The world should never be transformed."

"The Code demands that we question our limited conceptions," Obi-Wan said. "Passions fetter the Jedi when they bind the Jedi, when the Jedi is driven and pushed by them. Passions are a momentary flame; they burn, and then they are doused. Instead, the Jedi seeks to cultivate compassion for all beings."

"Is compassion not one of the passions?"

"This displays unclarity of thought," Obi-Wan replied. "To read the Code, we must understand that the words used by Master Urr are not the same as the words we use. When he speaks of 'passion', he refers to all kinds of cravings: physical cravings, sensual cravings, and even more abstract cravings. But compassion is a love purified of craving; it does not crave or desire, it merely _is_. In compassion, the Jedi comes fully to the end of the _self_."

"And what of love?" Qui-Gon challenged.

Obi-Wan tensed. Here it was, then. The point of divergence. "Love is dangerous," he replied.

"And what do you mean when you speak of 'love'?"

"Desire is dangerous," Obi-Wan replied, "Because desire is a passion."

"Loving-kindness," said Qui-Gon. "Sympathetic joy. Equinamity. These lie alongside love and it is important, my very young apprentice, that we do not shed the good with the bad. Beware attachment. Passion is often mixed up with these states. But it does not imply that a Jedi should scorn these."

It was what Qui-Gon _was_, Obi-Wan knew. His Master's attitude towards the Force and how a Jedi should comport himself meant they often had their differences. But he was learning, all the same, from Qui-Gon. "I am instructed," he replied, the traditional response of an apprentice to a Master in a trial like the Telva'shel'annar.

A pause. "What is the final line of the Code?"

"There is no death, there is the Force."

"Explain."

"Death is the final illusion," Obi-Wan replied. "If there is no self, then all things are of the Force. All things are _one_ Force, undivided. The Force has no beginning and no end; there is, then, no ending, only transformation and unity with the Force."

"What is the Code?"

"The Code is a guide," Obi-Wan stated, more confidently. "It encourages us to realise that all things are unreal, except the Force. It encourages the Jedi to strive for enlightenment, for an end to suffering."

"It encourages us," said his Master, quietly, "To cultivate a deep, abiding, compassionate _love_, for all beings, selflessly." But there was no imperative note in his voice this time; the Telva'shel'annar must have run its course, for instead, Qui-Gon spoke the ritual words that concluded an exchange between teacher and Jedi student. "May this exchange increase our understanding."

"I am instructed," Obi-Wan replied, once again.

He did not know how long he waited before light, bright burning light spilled into the chamber, and the next thing he realised; he'd collapsed, limp, into the strong arms of his Master.

"It is done," Qui-Gon said, more quietly. "You were brave, to endure for so long."

"How…how long?" Obi-Wan croaked. The sound of his own voice was strange. Outside of the sensory-deprivation chamber, he hadn't realised how _noisy_ the Temple had been, until all ambient sound had returned.

"Two days," Qui-Gon said. "Longer than some."

Two days. His Telva'shel'annar had lasted two days. Perhaps Qui-Gon had sensed something of the direction his thoughts had taken, for his Master added, lightly, "My own Master had me take my Telva'shel'annar at the age of eighteen. It went on for five days; we could not stop arguing. I was later told that Master Yoda himself had intervened when it seemed I would not be released anytime soon."

His large hand rested on Obi-Wan's shoulder, a brief touch.

Obi-Wan drank in the sensation; the barrage of sensory information. He wondered how they ordinarily dealt with it all: in his immediate retrieval from the sensory-deprivation chamber, there was so much information that he seemed, at times, overwhelmed.

His gait was unsteady. He'd been still for two days.

"Lean on me," his Master said, and he led him off for food and more importantly, rest.

* * *

Let go.

Obi-Wan could not. It had been years, he thought, dimly, as he knelt there, but the Telva'shel'annar left a definite impression on an apprentice. He clung to the memory of the stillness, the emptiness, but it slipped away from him like water droplets off a transparisteel windscreen.

He remembered it. Just not what it felt like.

It was attachment, he knew; raw and simple—a desire for reciprocal affection from the man who'd been the closest thing to a father-figure in his life for over a decade.

_There is no death. There is the Force_.

But maybe that was the point, Obi-Wan thought. Attachment _was_ difficult. One of the hardest mistakes to make, Qui-Gon had said, one day, casually, over a cup of tea, was that Jedi students always thought there _was_ an end-point. A Jedi chose, and walked the Jedi path every day. That was all. There was no mastery, no perfect Jedi. Mastery was not the destination; it was, in itself, a journey.

As the dawn light fell across the stained glass windows, casting fragments of coloured light across the marble floor, Obi-Wan breathed. He felt a little—just a little—of the pain ease. Perhaps one day, he would not feel the attachment to his old Master stirring in him. For now, he acknowledged the pain, recognised it for what it was, and with the carefulness of Jedi discipline, stepped back from it.

He remembered, abruptly, how Qui-Gon had been like, weeks after the death of Tahl. Dealing with grief, Obi-Wan realised, was a long, slow process. He could accept that. Perhaps one day, he'd even be able to talk about his Master without feeling the sharp pang in his chest.

Without regret.

Without attachment.

He almost—almost—laughed. Or cried. "Is this your final lesson to me, Master?" he asked, aloud. "I am instructed."

He didn't know how to go on. But he had to try. Bit by bit, step by step, until he could breathe again.

He bowed his head.

"Obi-Wan?"

Obi-Wan straightened up. "Anakin. How did you get here?"

Anakin shrugged, but looked as though he was very much trying to hide a triumphant smirk. "I overheard what the Masters were saying. Mister Qui-Gon's comlink was already set on a Jedi frequency so I just had to look up the ID he'd most frequently commed and ran a specific tight-beam trace from there."

Obi-Wan blinked. Clearly, he thought, Anakin wasn't going to be having difficulty with the technical and mechanical classes at the Jedi Temple.

"And you weren't in your room," Anakin added. "I was watching, last night. After Gallia went off to get some sleep."

"_Master_ Gallia, Anakin," Obi-Wan corrected. "She's a member of the Jedi Council and deserves respect."

"Well, she was watching me like a kutaka hound," Anakin said, "And we went and looked at the library and she got me a data-reader. But anyway. I guess you didn't even eat last night, huh? So I went and found someone who took me to the kitchens and got you this." He held out a large platter of buttered pastries, fresh fruit, preserves, and cheeses. "Couldn't carry the drink though. Sorry."

He _was_ touched by the gesture. It had been a large platter, and he thought of Anakin struggling to carry it here. "Thank you, Anakin, but…" he thought of saying that he wasn't feeling very hungry, but the boy _was_ right. He hadn't eaten last night. And he saw it already: the first hints of disappointment in Anakin's eyes. "…But I don't think this is the right place, do you?'

Anakin chewed on his lip. "Right. Because Mister Qui-Gon is here." He deflated, visibly. "Well, what about I say goodbye to him and then we go and find somewhere else to eat?"

"We can do that," Obi-Wan agreed. He took the platter from Anakin and waited as Anakin approached the body.

"Hi, Mister Qui-Gon," Anakin said, quietly. "I just wanted to thank you for freeing me, even though you couldn't free Mum. I'll come back and free her—all of them—someday. Thank you for letting me be a Jedi. If they let me in, I promise I'll never disappoint you. I'll be the best Jedi they've had in years. I'll never forget you and what you've done for me."

He bent down, pressed Qui-Gon's still hand lightly, and then let go. He looked up at Obi-Wan, his eyes shining in the light. "Can we go?" he asked, hurriedly. He scrubbed at his eyes, furiously, with his tunic sleeve.

Obi-Wan nodded. If either of them noticed the dampness on the other's tunic sleeves, neither of them mentioned it.

It seemed only polite.

* * *

Anakin had stared a little too longingly at the food, there was way too much for Obi-Wan himself to finish, even if he had much of an appetite, and he remembered, as if it were yesterday, how he'd spent most of his Padawan years, it seemed, eating.

It had been somewhat a relief to leave the relentless hunger of his teenage years behind him.

So he invited Anakin to share the breakfast, and Anakin had cheered and immediately begun stuffing jam-smeared pastries into his mouth.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan chided, "The food isn't going to run away from you."

"'Course it might," Anakin said, cheekily, through a mouth of flaky pastry, spilling crumbs onto the floor of the small side-chamber. "I don't know what food on other worlds does."

Obi-Wan looked at him.

"Well, maybe," Anakin said. "Or you might eat it." He stared pointedly at the mostly-untouched slice of toast Obi-Wan was holding.

Obi-Wan sighed and took an unenthusiastic bite out of it.

"Right," Anakin said. "Maybe that wasn't going to happen."

"Anakin," Obi-Wan said, "If you would _please_ not talk with your mouth full…"

Anakin looked mildly disgruntled and interested at the same time, if that was even possible. "Now you're sounding like Mum," he informed Obi-Wan. He picked up an orange and began to peel it.

"I should hope that your mother was very much for your adopting sound table manners," Obi-Wan retorted.

Anakin grinned through a mouthful of orange pulp, juices trickling. "She tried," he said.

All of a sudden, it struck Obi-Wan. He was fairly certain that Anakin had _never_ behaved like this for Qui-Gon and he couldn't even recall an incident in which Anakin had a scuffle with Padmé Amidala over basic table manners. Which only meant… "You're doing this deliberately, aren't you?" he asked. He stared at Anakin. The boy stared back at him.

"Would I be?" Anakin asked. He was a study in innocence, Obi-Wan thought, grimly. He knew better now. _You've got your work cut out for you, Kenobi_, Even Piell had said.

Now, Obi-Wan was beginning to fear that Even Piell was very, very right.

* * *

"Can I go with you?" Anakin asked, and winced. He wasn't intending on sounding like an overly-attached kutaka pup. He quickly added, "I know Gallia tries—"

"Master Gallia," Obi-Wan corrected, absently.

"—but she's sort of really boring. And scary."

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. His eyes glinted with amusement. "No one's ever said that before," he informed Anakin. "Although I _have_ heard someone use rather, ah, interesting words to describe her." Almost at once though, his expression darkened. It wasn't quite the look that passed Obi-Wan's face when he talked about Qui-Gon but it was similar. Anakin wondered what that was about.

"Well, like I told you, she took me to the library. Someone'd caused a _big_ mess in it yesterday. That was the interesting part. Other than that…"

Obi-Wan said, "Where?"

Anakin frowned. "The library," he repeated, confused. "There was a stack of really old books. Someone'd made a mess of the whole thing. The librarian was really upset about it. Said they were a bunch of books on Naboo history. I couldn't read most of them but one of them was on this thing called the Council of Five." He made a face. "Boring stuff."

Obi-Wan froze. "Anakin," he said, his voice gone very calm. "I need you to try to recall for me what you read about the Council of Five. Can you do that?"

Anakin tried very hard to remember. He thought back; he knew he had an extraordinarily strong memory, but he hadn't understood most of the details, and he'd found the book a little dry. "Something about the Council of Five electing the next Queen or King of Naboo," he mumbled. "I can't remember anything else."

He looked at Obi-Wan, wondering what the man would do.

Obi-Wan shook his head. "Do you remember where the library is?'

Anakin nodded, confidently. "Yes."

"Then we're going together," Obi-Wan instructed. "Lead the way, Anakin."

"What's so important about the Council?" Anakin wanted to know.

Obi-Wan was frowning, now.

"S'okay," Anakin mumbled. That kind of look had gotten him into trouble, back when it was Watto. Even though he _wanted_ to know why Obi-Wan was acting as though someone'd put fire ants in his soup.

Obi-Wan said, carefully, "It's somewhat restricted information, Anakin, and I'm thinking of the best way to put it. We _think_, though we aren't sure, that there is a connection between the Five and the attack on myself and Captain Panaka. If the Council of Five bears any relation to the Five…" he shrugged. "It may be relevant. It may not be. But it's significant enough to find out, don't you think?"

Anakin nodded. "Sure is," he agreed, somewhat more cheerfully now. Even if he wasn't a Jedi, he thought, obstinately, he'd have done this much: he'd have saved a whole _planet_, and Obi-Wan was letting him help investigate. Surely that was something! "C'mon then. It's right this way."

* * *

_A/N: Hi guys! Thanks to all who reviewed, or even favved and alerted this story. Here's the next chapter! As a quick update: life's been a bit stressful of late, so I might not quite be on time with installments of this story. I had initially planned on weekly updates, but that's clearly not very possible. Still, I have plans for all four parts of this story, each with their separate arcs, so I can promise this fic will not be abandoned. Just be patient and have faith ;)_

_As it stands, we are quite a few more chapters away from the conclusion of Part I but the end is in sight!_

_This chapter, I think, is strange in that it has neither action nor too much Anakin&amp;Obi-Wan interaction. In fact, the majority of the chapter is a discourse between Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan during a trial Obi-Wan undertakes as a senior Padawan. As a student of philosophy, I've attempted to do justice to what I see as Jedi philosophy, but as a comment, this is how I think these things work. If there's anything philosophy has taught us, it's that for all 'consensus positions' that exist, there's going to be a bunch of people who don't hold that position, there's going to be people who hold weird variations of that consensus position, there's going to be people who just don't care, and there's going to be people who hold extremely weird positions that you'd think weren't possible. _

_At this point, Obi-Wan occupies the orthodox position, with a bit more depth and rigour than your average Jedi. (I see people like Garen going, "Okay, anger is bad, I don't really care why, the philosophical underpinnings are for boring people.") Qui-Gon, as you might expect, is a radical, or at least he holds a different position. The Potentium people are not actually radicals; they differ subtly from the orthodox view, but the Sith is in the details, as they say..._

_Here are the main differences between what I am presenting as the orthodox view and the Potentium view:_

1\. The Force is not inherently 'good', as the Potentium view would have it. Instead, the Dark Side is a deviation from/corruption of the Force. Why the Dark Side is bad requires more explication and a moral theory, but it generally goes back to the Dark Side being generated by attitudes which promote suffering.

2\. Goodness and badness do reside in the Force-user; in addition, it is the badness in the Force-user which taints the Force, corrupting it to yield the Dark Side. The Dark Side is not an independent entity. But unlike the Potentium view, this does not license Jedi to explore 'dark aspects' of the Force. The ontology of the Dark Side comes apart from what the Jedi ought to do with the Force. (See: the moral badness of the Dark Side is a separate issue from the _ontology/metaphysics_ of the Dark Side.)

_I'm exploring more of the orthodox view in later chapters, particularly in Anakin's first lesson. (Well 'first-first' since he's technically already had one.) The intellectual history I have envisioned for this (it is in the background and may become more prominent later) has the current orthodox view being what was initially a radical view. If you remember, in KOTOR, the Jedi Code is different. The preference of the Jedi for training young children doesn't as well become entrenched until around the time of Bane. As I see it, Odan-Urr codified what was essentially considered a radical position. This position did not gain too much currency until the Jedi were facing a major threat during the war with the Sith, and at the end of the Battle of Ruusan, that position gradually became the consensus position. Future Jedi thinkers merely built upon and added layers to this position. So, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon are not necessarily correct: they're just presenting their views on a particular issue. It's important to keep in mind that this view has been conditioned by sociohistorical forces._

_Whew. Long A/N. See you around, guys, and I hope you've enjoyed this chapter._

_-Ammar_


	9. Promises Made

**In All The World**

Summary: The story of how Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tamed each other, from Naboo to Anakin's early days at the Temple. Slow-building Anakin/Obi-Wan friendship.

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Promises Made**

Anakin, Obi-Wan couldn't help noticing, had a clear sense for the spaces within the palace. That, he thought, would go on to serve him well as a Jedi. He traced the corridors with a certain degree of confidence, although they made a few wrong turnings here and there and had, eventually, to ask for help from a passing member of the palace staff.

Eventually though, they located the palace library, and Obi-Wan requested to speak to the librarian.

She was, he noticed, an aging woman who reminded him of none other than Jocasta Nu, the fearsome guardian of the Temple Archives. "A pleasure to help the Jedi," she said, looking at him, though much of that pleasure wasn't readily apparent. "What is it?'

"My young friend here," Obi-Wan said, gesturing to a restive Anakin, "Mentioned the library was in a state of disorder yesterday."

The librarian pursed her lips and frowned. "Well, yes," she finally admitted, grudgingly. "One particular section had been raided. Historical manuscripts—most of them very old, and pertaining only to Naboo. We're still assessing the damage, but given that no one had ever fully catalogued our historical collection in the first place due to time constraints…" she shrugged, bleakly. "It may be impossible to trace what has been lost," she finished. Her shoulders slumped. "I am hopeful that working from incomplete records might help us extrapolate to the extent of the damage, but…" she shook her head. "My predecessor was lazy _and_ a fool."

"Did the security cams—"

She shook her head, again. "We don't have security cams here, Master Jedi," she said. "Security budget doesn't extend to it. Tharé knows, I've been trying to talk Captain Panaka into it for ages but he says there are more relevant parts of the palace to upgrade, though with all the concern _he_ shows irreplaceable historical manuscripts…" she murmured a few choice words under her breath.

"Anakin also mentioned seeing a book on the Council of Five. Would you be able to tell me anything about them?"

"Book or Council?" she asked, shrewdly.

"Preferably the Council," Obi-Wan said. He had, after all, a shortage of time. He was fairly certain that Mace Windu expected a report soon. "Do they have any connection to the Five?"

The librarian nodded. "The Five are the modern descendents of the loose coalition whose representatives always sat on the Council of Five. In the past, the Council of Five were theoretically, mind, supposed to represent the different strands that were important interests on Naboo."

"Mineral wealth," Obi-Wan said. "The legislature and judiciary. The homefarms. The upland vineyards. And banking." He looked at the librarian to see if he'd gotten them all correct, and she nodded approvingly.

"Just so," she said. "Over time, the Five developed a stranglehold over the interests they were to represent. The position became a hereditary one. And then Queen Maré eventually abolished both the Council and the need for the Council to vote for the Monarch out of a pool of people-nominated candidates." She smiled faintly. "The Maréan reforms did much for democracy on Naboo."

"So I see," Obi-Wan said. He bowed his head to her in thanks. "Come, Anakin."

He hesitated before leaving and returned to the library counter. "Could you comm me when you develop a clearer idea of what is missing, or what the perpetrators are looking for?" he asked, and she bemusedly allowed him to scribble down his comlink ID on a fresh durasheet.

"I'll do that."

"Thank you."

"Can you show me the ransacked area?" Obi-Wan asked Anakin quietly.

The boy frowned, but then nodded. "Here," he said, leading Obi-Wan to a group of shelves near the right side of the library. "This one," he added, showing where a shelf had been almost hidden by a tall shelf on Naboo law.

Obi-Wan nodded absently and looked through the shelves. Most of the books, he noticed, had already been replaced on the shelves. The scripts were unfamiliar, but he thought he knew what they were. "Naboo script," he muttered aloud. "No wonder you couldn't read it."

"They have their _own_ alphabet?" Anakin wanted to know.

"Yes," Obi-Wan said. "Aurek-Besh is standard but some planets developed their own form of script from times prior to galactic contact. Naboo is one of those planets with a rich history."

"Wow," Anakin said. "Can you read it?"

Obi-Wan glanced at him. "No," he said, simply. "There are Jedi who know many old languages and writing systems, but I can't read Naboo script. Perhaps the Queen can."

"Padmé?" Anakin asked. "I'd bet."

Obi-Wan browsed the books, frowning. Most of them were in Naboo script but some were in Basic. As the librarian had said, they all appeared to be old manuscripts, dating from some point or other in Naboo history. It was hard to tell what whoever it was had been looking for, if they had, Obi-Wan thought, indeed at all been looking.

"You think there's something big about this?"

Obi-Wan pursed his lips. "Perhaps," he said, noncommittally. "My instincts tell me that something matters about what happened _here_." He shrugged. "It may be a dead end. But it's worth looking into."

"Why?"

Obi-Wan hesitated, and sighed. He had to start, he told himself, sooner or later, and the more Anakin was introduced to how a Jedi team on a mission had to think, the more used to it he would become. He was doing Anakin no favours by shutting him out right now. "Anakin," he said. "Think about it. This is what we know. We know someone hired the assassin. We know the assassin did _not_ go after the Queen, so presumably he wasn't hired to kill her."

"What if he hired someone else who never showed up?" Anakin wanted to know.

"Possible," Obi-Wan conceded. "But we've seen no sign of that. In addition, Resnik is—was a professional. It would be very strange for him to have lapsed with regard to who he hired. Understand this, Anakin—the simple explanation is often the best."

"Okay," Anakin said.

"So," Obi-Wan said, drawing back together the strands of his thought. "We know the library was ransacked. Likely by someone on palace grounds. To postulate two breaches of palace security is not impossible, but somewhat extravagant at the moment. The best time I can think of, for someone to enter the library without being seen, was very early in the morning when the security systems had been activated and palace security was having collective hysterics about how to protect the Queen. Do you see?"

Anakin nodded, slowly. "Now I do," he said, frowning. "So they're connected. Someone attacks you and Captain Panaka as a distraction…"

"We don't know for sure if it's a distraction," Obi-Wan corrected, gently. "It could just as easily be two people working together."

Anakin said, shrewdly, "But isn't that no longer a simple explanation?"

"Experience tells you what is within the range of possibility," Obi-Wan replied. He studied the shelf for any clues, but he did not notice anything left behind—no scrap of cloth, no hint as to who had come by. "Don't forget to keep an eye on other possible explanations. It doesn't do to get blindsided later on."

He sighed. "However, you are right. It would require someone _else_ working with whoever hired Resnik. And then we need to explain more things: why they're working together, why whoever it was hired Resnik—which still remains unexplained—and why they were trying to kill myself and Captain Panaka as it were."

"So you think it's two people after all?"

"I think," Obi-Wan said, "That I shall have to keep an open mind on the situation."

Anakin groaned.

* * *

Mace Windu was nowhere to be found, and when Obi-Wan commed him, he got a terse response ordering him to meet him in the hangar. Anakin's eyes lit up at once when he heard it.

The hangar was busy; mechanics repaired damaged starfighters, still, and pilots were taking off in shifts to fly patrols across the planet surface and to ensure that the Trade Federation hadn't left any forces on the ground.

The destruction of the Droid Control Ship should've sent all the Federation's battle droids into immobility, but as always, no one wanted to risk finding out weeks later about some nasty surprise.

Obi-Wan considered keeping Anakin with him as he reported to Mace Windu, but in the end, he allowed the boy to wander off and talk to one of the mechanics working on the battered wing of a starfighter. He extracted a promise from the boy to not disturb the man, and the mechanic had assured him that Anakin's curiosity was welcome.

The door to the power core slid open and Mace Windu strode out. "Good," he said. "You're here." He folded his arms across his chest and added, "I had to make sure."

"That he was dead?" Obi-Wan wanted to know.

"Among other things," Mace Windu said, and sighed. "Tell me the most striking thing about the Sith, Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan thought about it. That they used the Dark Side wasn't enough; so did fallen Jedi. So did angry Initiates. But further thought netted him the answer; memory swimming to the surface of his mind like the silver gleaming fish in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. "The Rule of Two," he said. "At any given time, there is at most two Sith: a Master to embody power and an apprentice to crave it."

Mace nodded, his hooded eyes never leaving Obi-Wan's. "Which was killed?" he asked softly. "Master or apprentice?"

Abruptly, Obi-Wan shivered. He _hoped_ it was the Master. He knew there was no good answer; either way you looked at it, there was at least one Sith Lord out there and it did not do to underestimate them.

Mace said, crisply, "You understand my concern, then. We also needed to know if there was any way to retrieve the body to obtain hints on his origins, to allow us to track down the remaining Sith." He shook his head. "Nothing. Nute Gunray and Rune Haako claim they know nothing."

"Perhaps," Obi-Wan said. But he found that difficult to believe.

Mace agreed with that. "How did they come into the acquaintance of the Sith Lord in the first place? There are too many questions that remain unanswered for their claim of ignorance to be satisfactory. In any case, this is not the question at hand. What of the Five, then?"

Obi-Wan briefly outlined the meeting with the Five for him. Mace nodded, slowly taking it in. "Your opinion?" he asked.

"They have people inside the palace. They knew about the assassination attempt, even when the palace had been put under a security lockdown," Obi-Wan said, simply. "That alone neither exonerates nor implicates them. If they had people inside the palace, why did Resnik need to slip into the palace? But that has a simple answer: perhaps he wasn't supposed to be traceable back to them." He shook his head slightly. "Even so, Resnik had to get his information from somewhere. He knew about palace routines. He knew about the layout of the palace. He fled into the secret passages. He knew to get a slicer to break into the palace security systems and to trap us. That alone means the Five remain a viable option."

Mace nodded shortly and motioned for Obi-Wan to go on.

He shifted to the next issues that had occurred to him, as he'd thought about the events of the meeting. "They spent most of the meeting pleading all sorts of grievances," he said. "And they could not realistically expect the Queen to rule in their favour; even if they did, this did not urgently require an audience. I think they were keen to assert their loyalty by reminding the Queen that they approach her as supplicants, and that they dislike the Trade Federation." He thought, in particular, of the Velerra complaint. "It was more about the assassination than anything," he concluded. "They're nervous."

That was his primary impression: they were all nervous and they were all hiding something. Just what it was, Obi-Wan was less certain of.

"And your impressions of those present?"

"Sirdaé Ersken speaks for the Five," Obi-Wan said, simply. "Or at least, she would like to appear as if she does. For that reason, if we investigate the Five, then we should speak to her. With power often comes knowledge, after all. And control. Ren Yvar is arrogant. Whether that extends to hiring a bounty hunter is difficult to say. Jurité Velarra appears to be blunt and fairly honest. But that could easily be a cultivated impression. In a coalition as powerful as the Five, no representative ought to lack diplomatic savvy. Iben Derriva is swift to advocate investigation and punishment. Perhaps too swift. And Nurié Helukala wants to disassociate herself from Ersken."

Mace Windu nodded, once again. "It is difficult to know what hides behind all of these," he agreed, gravely. He sighed. "Keep the boy close," he said, at last. "I do not feel any danger at present, but it is better to not let him run wild."

"Yes, Master Windu," Obi-Wan murmured, acknowledging the comment.

"I think it is worth speaking to the Five," Mace Windu added. "I will countenance an investigation into them. They seem to know more than they are letting on."

"I had that impression," Obi-Wan agreed.

"Good," Mace said. "Speak to the Five. Determine if they may be involved."

"In the conspiracy?"

Mace shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted bluntly. "There may be one. There may not be. Experience tells me that the Queen is right: some of her people will have collaborated with the Trade Federation. But collaboration is a different beast from a conspiracy to assume much of the power in Naboo, or a conspiracy to have the Queen killed. So you need to speak with the Five."

"I will, Master."

"And I will continue to investigate," Mace Windu concluded. "May the Force be with you, then." It was a dismissal—and a slightly curt one. _Perhaps_, Obi-Wan thought, _he is preoccupied_.

"May it be with both of us."

He turned to leave when Mace's voice stopped him.

"Obi-Wan?"

"Master Windu?" he replied.

"Be careful."

For some reason, Obi-Wan had the strangest feeling that Mace wasn't quite referring to the Five, or the conversations he would be having with them.

* * *

Anakin tried not to fidget. Obi-Wan stood close beside him, dressed in freshly-laundered robes. Next to him, Anakin felt positively shabby in the loose, stained tunic and leggings that had accompanied him from Tatooine.

The palace guards had all lined up on the grounds to welcome the Supreme Chancellor. Anakin wondered if they got bored or hot or tired, just standing there like that. He couldn't see himself doing it, without scratching, itching, or even just shifting from one foot to another. It'd have driven him sand-crazy.

"How long is it going to be?" Anakin whispered.

Obi-Wan glanced at him, barely turning his head. "As long as necessary," he said, firmly. "They need to run all sorts of security checks before the Chancellor is allowed on the palace grounds. A single assassination attempt _now_ would cause all sorts of trouble."

"I know," Anakin muttered, even though he hadn't thought of that. He wasn't going to tell Obi-Wan that, though. And the Jedi certainly didn't seem inclined to call him on it.

According to Obi-Wan, Padmé had said that the Supreme Chancellor had told her he wanted to personally greet and thank the two heroes who had saved his home planet. Another of the things I'll have done, he told himself, even if the Jedi think I'm not good enough for them. He'd have met and been thanked personally by the Supreme Chancellor.

He tried not to twitch.

He felt a tentative hand touch his shoulder. "Patience, Anakin," Obi-Wan said.

"I _know_," Anakin grumbled. All this standing around was starting to get to him.

_Finally_, a group of guards in blue, flowing robes and who wore full-cheeked helmets of gleaming plasteel exited the hangar and marched across the palace grounds. Surrounded by his guards, the Supreme Chancellor approached them.

"His name is Palpatine," Obi-Wan had told him, earlier. "And you refer to him as 'your Excellency'. _Never_ with his first name."

Palpatine seemed like a kind man, Anakin thought. He was smiling; his eyes gleamed with a warm sort of amusement, and he was balding, his hair receding from his forehead. It wasn't what he'd expected the man to look like. He'd thought of someone stricter; someone who wasn't going to take no for an answer, and who _ran_ the galaxy.

"Jedi Kenobi," Palpatine greeted, with a fond smile. "And young Anakin." He briefly shook Obi-Wan's hand, and then Anakin's. "I'm given to understand that I should congratulate you—it's Knight Kenobi now, isn't it? You have my condolences on the death of Qui-Gon Jinn. He was a Jedi I greatly respected, and the galaxy is all the more diminished by his passing."

Obi-Wan nodded. "You are too kind, your Excellency," he murmured. But Anakin could see that Look in his eyes again.

"Nonsense," Palpatine said, waving that off. "You saved my home planet, both of you. I will always be grateful for what you've done at a time when the gaze of the galaxy turned aside from Naboo." He looked directly at Anakin. "You're very gifted for one so young."

"I race Pods," Anakin said. "A starfighter is nothing." It was a bit of a lie; he hadn't known what he was doing, but Palpatine beamed.

"Why, my boy!" he said. "That was most _impressive_. Fully-grown and trained pilots were unable to take down that ship, or so I hear. It wasn't 'nothing', it was one of the most amazing displays of flying they'd ever seen. I'll be following your career with much interest, I can promise you that."

"Thank you, your Excellency," Anakin said, resisting the urge to crow. The Supreme Chancellor of the Republic thought what he'd done was impressive _and_ amazing and had said he would be watching Anakin. Did it get any better than this?

"The Force is strong with Anakin," Obi-Wan said. For some reason, he'd shifted, just slightly, so it seemed as though he was trying to angle himself to put himself between Anakin and the Chancellor.

"So I hear," Palpatine said. "I'm sure he'll make a fine Jedi."

"It's not decided yet," Anakin said.

Palpatine looked positively offended. "Now," he said to Obi-Wan, "This is preposterous. You've said he's strong in the Force, and he's proven himself a hero and saved Naboo from one of the greatest threats she has ever faced. Surely he _deserves_ to be a member of the Order?"

Obi-Wan said, carefully, "The matter is not mine to decide, your Excellency. And Anakin's fate is a strict matter of Jedi policy."

Palpatine shook his head. "I know, I know," he said. "You're politely trying to tell me to mind my own business. I can accept that. I am, after all, getting on a little in years, and no doubt you think I'm being rather nosy. Particularly when the Jedi have always enjoyed independence in their own affairs." He smiled, faintly. "But at least hear me out. Will you do that?"

Obi-Wan inclined his head, after a few moments.

"This boy is special," Palpatine said. "And if the Jedi chooses to waste his potential by rejecting him, then well, I'd be happy to take him on. I owe both of you a debt I can never repay."

Obi-Wan was shaking his head. "I am responsible for Anakin," he said.

"It was an offer, nothing more," Palpatine said. "After all, I can only plead and cajole. Still, I do hope you will take the appeal of an aging man under consideration. A special boy like Anakin," he smiled indulgently at Anakin, "I imagine he'd need a great deal of care and warmth. It is not something one immediately associates with the Jedi Order."

"I will consider that," Obi-Wan said. His expression had returned to being unreadable, Anakin decided, looking up to study the man's features.

"Well, then," Palpatine said. He turned back to Anakin. "If you ever find yourself needing help," he said, "Or even a friendly face, know that my door is always open to you. Naturally, I make you the same offer as well, Knight Kenobi."

"Thank you, your Excellency," Obi-Wan murmured. Anakin repeated his words.

The Chancellor smiled at Obi-Wan—_winked_ at Anakin!—and then walked on, his entourage forming up sharply around him.

"Did you hear that?" Anakin managed, fairly bursting with excitement.

Obi-Wan shot him a quelling glance. If anything, Anakin thought, the Jedi did not seem to be as thrilled as he felt. "Yes," Obi-Wan said, at last. "I did." He let out a short sigh. "Politicians."

"What do you mean?" Anakin wanted to know.

"He's a politician," Obi-Wan said, in a hushed voice, folding his arms across his chest. "Their job is to appear sincere and approachable, Anakin."

"Are you saying he's not?" Anakin demanded.

Obi-Wan sighed. "Anakin, I really don't know."

"Mum always said not to judge people you didn't know," Anakin found himself retorting, hotly.

Obi-Wan said, "She's right." He sighed. "Maste—Qui-Gon would always remind me not to do that. Nevertheless. I grant there are genuine and kind politicians, but you do not know anything of the Supreme Chancellor, let alone his motivations."

"Neither do you," Anakin pointed out.

Obi-Wan nodded, accepting the point. "I'm not saying he's a bad man, Anakin," he said, firmly. "I'm just asking you to be wary. Can you do that?"

Anakin thought about it. Mum had always said, he thought, that one of the greatest problems with people was that they were too suspicious to help other people. "We have to be there for each other, Ani," she told him, one night as she carefully cleaned out his scraped knuckles and said nothing about the bruises on his back. "And if we don't help each other, who will?"

"I guess," he said, finally. It came out a little grudgingly.

_You're not home anymore,_ the quiet voice in his head reminded him. Not for the first time, he wondered what he'd lost.

* * *

Night was falling; enveloping the palace as though someone had gently let fall a curtain. Everyone was gathering in the ceremonial chamber on the tallest spire of the royal palace to mourn the passing of Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn.

Not Obi-Wan. Not yet.

He was alone, for now. He was sharply aware that this privacy was a mere illusion, afforded him by simple courtesy; that the other bearers awaited him in the antechamber adjoining this one.

He had sat out his vigil, as was proper. With Anakin, he'd said farewell to his Master. But how did one ever properly say goodbye? How did someone step away from their grief, from the haunting ache of loss?

It was the weight of all the words left unsaid; all the questions left unasked, all the things left undone that nearly staggered him, and he bore it all on his shoulders. That was what saying goodbye meant; it meant acknowledging that weight, acknowledging what it meant for a life to be cut off, acknowledging there would never be another 'tomorrow', another 'next time'; that Qui-Gon would never cut off his braid (Master Yoda had done so), that he would never tell Obi-Wan that he was proud of him, never offer him that fond smile with warmth in his eyes, never press his hand lightly to Obi-Wan's shoulder in that familiar way he did when he was acknowledging his apprentice…

All of these things seemed to dwell in the silence, here and now, resonating in the hollow space between his ribs, made acute by the awareness that the others waited. It was time to let go; time to commit his Master to the flames.

From a pouch on his utility belt, Obi-Wan produced the severed braid, the hair crisped and blackened on the end where Master Yoda had severed it by the glowing blade of his lightsaber. His vision wavered and blurred; he felt a painful tightness in his throat and chest as he bent forward and blindly wove among his Master's cold and unresponsive fingers.

Qui-Gon would take the braid with him to the fires. It seemed only right.

He refused to crack; forced himself to keep breathing, until the tight band that had worked its way around his chest had loosened and he felt as though he could speak to those waiting outside with as much of an approximation to Jedi serenity as he could manage.

He pressed his hand to Qui-Gon's one last time, as if to take with him whatever trace of his Master's life and spirit that lingered—if it did at all—and then stood up and made his way to the antechamber.

Three others waited there.

A Jedi's pallbearers were normally selected from those who had known the Jedi well in life. As Qui-Gon's surviving apprentice, Obi-Wan would always have been one of the four. Perhaps, he found himself thinking, Tahl would have been as well, had she lived. It was only natural. His Master had loved Tahl, with a fierce simplicity that Obi-Wan still found himself surprised by.

With only members of the Jedi Council on Naboo, the pool of potential bearers had been narrowed down, and yet Obi-Wan knew his Master had not been cheated by this. Mace Windu was one of them; he knelt now in meditation, no sign of impatience on his face. Beside him, Adi Gallia sat cross-legged instead. Unlike Qui-Gon, she favoured that pose for meditation instead of the kneeling stance that some other Masters taught. Of the entire Council, she had worked the most with Qui-Gon. For that reason, she was here now, to bear him to the flames at the end.

The last, in a move that Obi-Wan would later admit he was surprised by, was Padmé Amidala, dressed as the simple handmaiden he'd known her briefly as, unadorned by any of the regalia or facial paint he had begun to associate with her regal persona.

It should've been Master Yoda, they all knew. Yoda had trained Dooku, who had trained Qui-Gon, and Qui-Gon and the diminutive Grandmaster of the Jedi Order had a close relationship. Perhaps seeing the startlement on his features, Padmé raised her chin and said, simply, "I asked. He offered to yield his place to me. He saved my planet."

There wasn't anything he could say to that. It wasn't about friendship, Obi-Wan thought, in that moment. It was a flash of insight that startled him. They were gathering to honour Qui-Gon's life, and from that perspective, Padmé Amidala had just as much right—if not more—to stand with the other bearers. Perhaps Master Yoda had known that, even as he ceded his place to the young Queen of Naboo.

He inclined his head to her; in acceptance as much as in greeting.

Mace Windu stood. Gravely, deliberately, he drew the tan hood of his Jedi robe over his face, shadowing it. There were no words from him, not now. Obi-Wan echoed the gesture, drawing the hood of his mended robe over his head. Even Padmé wore a simple hooded cloak of a deep forest green; a few shades less brilliant than the hue of Qui-Gon's lightsaber.

Adi Gallia nodded to him. "Are you ready?" she asked quietly.

"I am." His voice was more assured than he had expected.

"Let us begin, then," Mace Windu said. They assumed their positions and then entered the chamber where Qui-Gon Jinn lay in repose to bear the Jedi Master on his final journey to the waiting fires.

* * *

Anakin had seen death, many times before on Tatooine. There, death came in many forms; the desert loomed all around them, and people who were careless, who neglected to take the proper precautions or who simply couldn't afford to do so died.

Shmi had told him stories of junkmen: scavengers who braved the heat to wander the desert, searching for salvage they could take back to Anchorhead or Mos Espa or Mos Eisley to sell for a price. For all they were vagrants, junkmen were more trusted than the Jawas, and most moisture farmers preferred to conduct their business with junkmen.

He remembered one of them: a stocky woman, with dark eyes and a leathery face. Her hair was tied back behind her, and her hand was quick to fall to her blaster. They called her Finder, he remembered, because she seemed to have a sixth-sense for where the best salvage was. Watto'd even bought a few rare converters off her before.

One day, a tall man with fair hair came to the store.

"What's your business?" Watto asked, in his cracked voice.

The man showed him something—what it was, Anakin couldn't make out. He was busy cleaning the sand that had gotten into an old and mostly defunct astromech droid. And then, he said, aloud, "Finder's dead. I was to bring this to you."

"Well, well," Watto said, folding his arms across his chest. "Say, Finder was supposed to bring me _five_ of the E-419s and I only see three of them here. My deal's with her, not with you."

The man said, coolly, "Well, then I suppose I could take them to another dealer."

"Wait."

Posturing, Anakin thought. That was what they were doing.

Watto's voice shifted, turning more cajoling. "Well, now, I suppose I could offer you a deal…" he named a number of truguts that made Anakin's eyes widen. He stared down at his hands, pausing in his cleaning. With that amount of money, he thought, he could buy the parts they needed to fix the ventilator at home. He knew he could hear his mum coughing at night, from the fine sand, and he wished fervently that his skills were better—he'd scavenged and salvaged what he could, but sometimes clever engineering was no replacement for the needed parts.

So Finder was dead. Anakin found he couldn't bring himself to care. She had ignored him—he was, after all, just a slave—and without that interaction, he had no reason to miss her. Or if he did, it was only in the way he missed a regular fixture of his life suddenly gone missing—it was not so much who they were as the stability they had represented. Gone.

Slaves died, all the time.

Fahran's owners hadn't been understanding. They'd sent her into the desert to collect an owed sum from a family of moisture farmers. The landspeeder had broken or something like that—Anakin couldn't remember what it was—and she'd died of exposure to the heat, engine oil pooling thick in her throat. She'd died desperate.

Finder had found her and brought her back. The owners had cursed. They wanted the money. Slaves were easily replaceable and weren't worth the junkman's fee.

Imirn and Deshli, killed in a Tusken raid. They shouldn't have been stranded in the desert but they had been. He remembered the loose way Turahn's skin hung off his back after he'd been flogged repeatedly by his owner for breaking an expensive droid, the exact shattering quality of his mother's sobs as she took down the broken, limp body of her son at dusk.

Turahn had been ten. Anakin had been six, then. He remembered Shmi clutching him to her, saying, "Don't look, Ani."

He said, "I have to, Mum." Knew, even then, with a deep, aching part of him that he _had_ to look, that it _had_ to matter, that someone's pain had to be acknowledged and made real because the greatest injustice was to pretend none of them cared. That Turahn didn't matter; that a bright, laughing boy with nimble fingers who was always quick to share his water deserved to be forgotten.

She understood, even though he was six and hadn't the words to express it.

She just said, "Oh, Ani," and clutched him all the more fiercely. And then she went over and spoke to Turahn's mother, comforting her, and Anakin distantly remembered her later at the dinner table.

She'd died two years later, and he couldn't remember what it was for.

Life on Tatooine was hard and cruel and slaves died in so many ways, and for all you witnessed, for all it broke your heart and filled it with anger that ground up your chest like shards of broken glass, you grew numb, after a while. Stopped remembering with sharp, clear acuity.

It hurt less, that way.

He wasn't proud of it.

He watched as the four Jedi came in, all of them hooded, bearing Qui-Gon's body among them. He wasn't going to cry, Anakin told himself. He'd already said goodbye, hadn't he? But still, his vision blurred as the four figures brought the body to the pyre where Master Yoda waited, leaning heavily on his stick.

He thought he recognised Obi-Wan among them. He couldn't say why. Perhaps it was something of the set of his shoulders; the way he always held himself ramrod-straight, and yet stood as though he bore the weight of a planet on them.

The body was laid to rest on the cremation pyre and then Master Yoda strode forward. He received a burning torch from the Queen, and approached the body. For a moment, Anakin thought he would be the one to touch the flame to wood, but instead, the Jedi Master beckoned with a clawed hand.

One of the figures turned to him. Obi-Wan, Anakin thought fiercely. It had to be. The figure bent down. Yoda's mouth moved; he was saying something. What it was, Anakin couldn't make out. Perhaps Obi-Wan was saying something in return, but his back was to Anakin as he faced the senior Jedi. Eventually, Yoda nodded. Such a simple gesture.

And then he bent down and carefully touched the tip of the burning torch to the fire.

Flames didn't spring up immediately; they spread slowly, from the glowing tip of the torch, enveloping the pyre and Qui-Gon's body.

At last, the four figures withdrew. Obi-Wan had explained it to him earlier; this would be the main part of the cremation, where they stood in silence, the Jedi contemplating the life of service that Qui-Gon had led and the Naboo among them offering their respects to the deceased.

He glanced around him. It surprised him, how many of them there were. He recognised many of Padmé's guards in the room. The Chancellor stood with them, next to Padmé herself in her ceremonial regalia.

She looked at him. She didn't smile or acknowledge him.

It stung, a little. Maybe, Anakin reasoned, she was busy paying her respects, too.

The hooded figure, whom Anakin now recognised as Obi-Wan, stepped into place beside him. He recognised the distance in those blue-grey eyes; clouded, now, as they gazed at the pyre. If they glittered with unshed tears, Anakin said nothing. After all, Obi-Wan must've seen his own eyes watering, and he'd said nothing about them either.

They could both pretend, couldn't they?

Eventually, the flames spread, consuming Qui-Gon's body. Anakin struggled between two conflicting emotions: a restless sort of boredom and the gaping feeling of loss, of uncertainty, of losing the only Jedi who had treated him kindly, whom he'd thought of, in a small way, as a father. Beyond the flames, in the gathered dusk, he saw the nagging uncertainty of his future. Was he to be a Jedi? Was he to be sent back to Tatooine and made a slave again? What was to become of him?

He must have let out some small cry—some sound of distress—because Obi-Wan's hand fell to his shoulder.

Almost, Anakin moved away. But though he stopped, Obi-Wan noticed the abortive gesture, and he withdrew. "You must let go, Anakin," he murmured. "He is with the Force now." A almost-smile appeared on his lips, but it was more a painful grimace; there was no joy in the gesture. "Luminous beings we are," he said, with the air of a quote. "Not this crude matter."

Anakin did not know what to say in response to that. Pointing out that Obi-Wan was having as much difficulty letting go seemed to be spitting in the face of the Jedi who was trying to make an effort to reach out to him. Instead, he asked, quietly, "What's going to happen to me?"

Obi-Wan knelt, and looked at him right in the eye. He said, "Anakin. The Council has granted me permission to train you. You will be a Jedi. I promise."

* * *

_A/N: Urgh. This installment came out later than I would like. Hopefully, if I build enough of a chapter-buffer, the next updates can be more timely. Thanks to all who have been reading and enjoying In All The World: Don't give up on it yet! I haven't. After the funeral, it gets more plotty because Obi-Wan and Anakin begin full investigations._

-Ammar


	10. Early Lessons

**In All The World**

Summary: The story of how Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tamed each other, from Naboo to Anakin's early days at the Temple. Slow-building Anakin/Obi-Wan friendship.

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Early Lessons**

Somewhere in the middle of the night, Anakin had fallen asleep on his feet. Obi-Wan had caught the boy as he swayed, and gently laid him down in a quiet corner of the chamber. He hesitated for a moment, and then he pulled off his robe, draping it over the boy like a blanket.

Padmé came over. "Shall I ask for an escort to take him to his room?" she asked, quietly. "He must be exhausted."

Obi-Wan thought about it. "It's fine, m'lady," he said, keeping his voice down. "I think Anakin would not forgive us if we made the decision for him."

Padmé nodded, ruefully. "I used to insist I could stay up to watch the fireworks on Edrin's Day. They prepare all year, and then set them off late at night all at once in a beautiful display. Once, I snuck out of bed and climbed the roof. I fell asleep there before the fireworks even began." She gave a soft laugh. "My parents were cross with me. But not as cross as I was with myself for falling asleep!" Her gaze softened as she glanced at Anakin. "He certainly looks like he could use his rest."

"It has been a trying week, m'lady," Obi-Wan agreed, neutrally.

They spoke no further.

'Luminous beings we are, not this crude matter.' He'd quoted Master Yoda at Anakin—thoughtlessly. It was a truth all Jedi knew; that they were beings of the Force, rather than of matter. There was a seirta, a Jedi teaching tale that Qui-Gon had told him, once. There were three Jedi, watching a robe hanging on the washing-line, billowing out with the wind. The first Jedi, an apprentice, said, "Look—the robe is moving!" He was admonished by his Master, a Knight, who said, "It is not the robe that is moving. It is the wind that moves, and the robe with it." A Jedi Master passing by shook her head and admonished both of them. "It is not the robe," she said, "Or the wind that moves. It is the Force that moves, and your mind within it."

The mind, the _self_, Obi-Wan thought, was an illusion. Or so orthdox Jedi doctrine went. Immersed in the Force, the boundaries between the Jedi Master and the Force dissolved. This was the wisdom encapsulated in Yoda's words: to look beyond the crude matter that made up the living, breathing Qui-Gon Jinn he had known—matter that, or so they'd been taught in their astrophysics classes—had once come from a star, and was, in a sense, returning to the fires.

For all of that, he did not feel any better as the flames consumed his Master's body.

He had to move on, Obi-Wan thought. Life demanded it. There were missions and duties and responsibilities—stretching ahead into the far future. His Master had placed a young life in his hands. That was not the sort of thing to be taken lightly. He gazed over at where Anakin slept. In sleep, he looked even younger than he was. Even Piell's words echoed in his head, again. _"…He's a handful and a half; exuberant as anything, but whatever the case, he's not going to be like those disciplined little hellions you find at the Temple. He's wild, through and through, he won't laugh at some things, and in some ways, you'll find that being a slave and having only his mother for company's going to make him more grown-up than you'd expect. You're going to have to deal with all of that, with nothing else to lean on. In some ways, he'll be very different from you as a Padawan, and you're going to have to accept that."_

Could he accept that?

He had to, Obi-Wan thought, because he'd promised Qui-Gon; because it was the last thing his dying Master had heard before he'd passed from this world and into the Force. That meant letting go; that meant stepping out from under the weight of his pain, although it came back again and again, dragging at him like the undertow on a stark coast, and threatened to overwhelm him. Anakin deserved better. He'd led a hard life, for one so young. He deserved a Master who could do even half as well by him as Qui-Gon had done with Obi-Wan.

Watching the dancing flames of Qui-Gon's pyre was final and irrevocable; it was the reminder that his Master was never coming back. Ever.

He knew that. He was no stranger to death, not as a Jedi. He remembered the way Tahl's arm dangled loosely around Qui-Gon's shoulder, the way his Master broke down and sobbed as a child. He remembered the men and women and children he had seen, killed, on so many worlds, so many missions.

It always came back to Qui-Gon. How different the finality of death seemed, when it came to those you loved. He had loved and respected his Master. That was why he struggled with his grief, now. He thought back to the moment of pellucid clarity, in the middle of the vigil he'd sat by his Master's body in the Tariyalean Room. Grief didn't end by an act of will; you soldiered past it, and eased out from under it, day by day. You had to keep choosing to go on, to keep accepting it, until one day the pain diminished and left you, if not completely.

He bowed his head.

The flames flickered and danced and eloganted; perhaps from the tears in his eyes.

* * *

Anakin stirred, still sleepy. The weight of something foreign startled him—it was thick and rough and heavy, and shifted with his movements. There was something uncomfortable in it, too, poking at him.

He felt around muzzily, trying to open his eyes.

Light was pouring in through the access door of the balcony; golden and bright. He figured it was probably the afternoon. He'd slept for a while, then.

The foreign weight on him was a large Jedi robe that someone had left behind. He managed to find the hard, plastic thing that was jabbing him in one of the robe's inner pockets. It was a data-stick, Anakin discovered. He glanced at it curiously, wondering what was on it. He supposed he could check, if he could find his datapad. But it didn't seem _right_. He knew whose this was: it was Obi-Wan's robe, and therefore Obi-Wan's data-stick. It seemed, almost, as though he had known that all along, just as he'd realised he was back in his room, listening to the comfortable murmur of the water, but hadn't registered it until now, with the music of the water a soothing sound in the background that he'd unconsciously ignored.

Obi-Wan himself was sprawled—surprisingly inelegantly—in one of the chairs, booted feet resting on the floor. His eyes were shut; he'd fallen asleep, Anakin realised. He wondered if Obi-Wan was cold. Certainly, although he'd tried to adjust the temperature regulator in his room, he'd been disappointed to find they weren't quite working.

He slipped off the bed, picked up the robe, and padded quietly over to where Obi-Wan slept. Carefully, he threw the robe over the slumbering Jedi, and tugged it just-so, the way Shmi had always done for him at night.

Obi-Wan must've been a light sleeper. He startled awake even as Anakin was turning on his heel. "What—oh. Anakin," he said, slipping easily from surprise to a greeting. "Good morning." He glanced out the balcony door and amended the greeting. "Good afternoon, rather."

"How do you do that?" Anakin wanted to know.

"Do what?"

"Wake up so fast," he said. "Mum always used to say it'd take a bucket of sand to get me up on a good day."

Obi-Wan drew himself up, shook out his robe in a neat, elegant motion, and began to shrug into it. He checked his chrono. "Late afternoon," he said, shaking his head. "I suppose at least it isn't evening yet. Shall we get something to eat?"

He wanted to ask about what he'd missed—he remembered Obi-Wan telling him he would be a Jedi, he'd make sure of it, and a long evening watching the flames of Qui-Gon's funeral pyre but little else. Before he could find the words though, Anakin's stomach betrayed him with a loud growl.

Obi-Wan smiled. The gesture seemed to take some of the severity out of his expression. "It sounds like that should be our first step, then."

"Wizard!" Anakin enthused. The thought of food cheered him up, even as he wrestled with how to ask Obi-Wan about what was going on. The man had been somewhat friendly, yes, but Anakin couldn't help but feel that a gap existed between them, all the same, and he wasn't sure how to bridge it, much less how to ask Obi-Wan if he was _sure_ when he said he'd train Anakin.

He hadn't seen any sign of it, after all, and Obi-Wan hadn't mentioned his training since—_he's just woken up,_ he reminded himself. Maybe Obi-Wan had other things on his mind.

Watto was good at promising things, Anakin thought. He wasn't so good at delivering what he'd sometimes promised in a moment when he got carried away.

He looked down at his hands. It was cruel, he thought, to accuse Obi-Wan of doing the same thing. But first, Qui-Gon had taken him away from Tatooine, promising to train him as a Jedi; then he had been denied, and brought to Naboo, still following Qui-Gon, who was now dead, and he still didn't know what the Jedi wanted of him.

"Anakin?"

He looked up at Obi-Wan.

"What is it?" Obi-Wan asked.

There it was, Anakin thought. All he had to do was to ask. What was the worst Obi-Wan could do? He could decide he didn't want to train Anakin after all, he reminded himself. He could discard Anakin, leave him floundering in this galaxy with no means of returning to Tatooine and freeing Shmi, with no way of making something of himself. _But Chancellor Palpatine had offered him help_, a small voice in his head reminded him. And he seemed all right, even nice for a man of his age and stature…

Obi-Wan was regarding him, expectantly.

Anakin said, haltingly, "Did you mean what you said, last night?" He didn't want that, he realised, didn't want Obi-Wan to say that he hadn't meant it, that he didn't want Anakin. He _wanted_ the man's regard, he realised, and he didn't even know why.

Obi-Wan blinked. "Meant what?" he said, and then, as Anakin's heart was about to sink, understanding flashed in his gaze. "Oh. That. Yes, of course I meant it, Anakin."

He hadn't known how tense he was—how he'd drawn himself all taut like one of the bantha-hide ropes they used to fetch water from wells—until he felt something in him, all clenched and tight like a fist, relax. "Then how come we aren't training me yet?" he demanded, and winced in the next moment at how whiny he sounded.

Obi-Wan shook his head lightly. "If you are going to be a Jedi," he informed Anakin, "Which you _are_, of course, you're going to have to learn to be patient." He sighed. "That being said, the Council had only very recently given me permission to train you—and of course, you are correct: I owe you an apology for not having informed you sooner. I have been remiss there."

"S'alright," Anakin mumbled. He felt a prick of guilt as Obi-Wan bowed his head in a brief apologetic gesture.

"In any case," Obi-Wan said, "I imagine we have priorities. Food first, and then we'll have to ease you into training. The victory celebrations are scheduled for two days after the funeral—" his mouth twitched into a slight expression of distaste—at what, Anakin could not tell—"We'll have to make sure you have something appropriate to your new status as my apprentice to wear. And then there is the matter of protecting the Queen."

"What's wrong?" Anakin wanted to know. It was clear Obi-Wan was unhappy about something, and it struck him that perhaps Obi-Wan was unhappy about being saddled with an apprentice. Was that what was bothering him?

Obi-Wan said, "Ordinarily, you would have been trained at the Temple." Anakin ducked his head, feeling a flush of heat in his cheeks. It wasn't _his_ fault that he hadn't been, he thought, stubbornly. Being a slave wasn't something he was going to apologise for. Obi-Wan took one look at him and said, "I don't mean this is a bad thing, Anakin. I just mean that I am uneasy about not being able to immediately bring you to the Temple to begin your training. We still have to remain here for the victory celebrations, and all this while, I'm tasked with protecting Queen Amidala and investigating the assassination attempt on her. It is not the most ideal of conditions under which to have to teach an untrained apprentice."

"You think it's too dangerous?"

Obi-Wan nodded, without hesitation. "Anakin, you almost died. And so did I," he said, simply. "A Jedi faces danger every day, out there in the galaxy. I knew this. So did Qui-Gon. But the Temple does not simply throw young Jedi out on dangerous missions unless it has some level of basic confidence in their abilities. You will be a good Jedi, I'm sure of it. But right now, you aren't ready for danger, and as the person charged with your safety, I'm worried for you."

"I'm not afraid," Anakin replied, raising his chin defiantly.

Obi-Wan ran a hand through his hair. "I know you aren't," he said. "But that's not the point. I'm not doubting your courage, Anakin. I'm trying to see how we should handle this matter."

"Are you going to send me away?"

Obi-Wan arched an eyebrow. "Do you think I should?"

Anakin bit his lip. "I don't want to go," he muttered. He didn't like the idea of being packed off onto a ship with Gallia or the other Jedi and then taken to the Temple while Obi-Wan remained on Naboo with Padmé. Would Obi-Wan even remember to come back for him? How long would Obi-Wan remain on Naboo? "I want to stay with you."

"All right, then," Obi-Wan said, crisply. "That settles the matter. I will, however, expect you to stay close by me, or by a palace guard. If another attempt is made on the Queen's life and I am occupied, _please_ find safety elsewhere." He reached out, and hesitated; instead, he drew his hand sharply back. "We'll go get something to eat, and then I'll see if the palace tailors can't produce something for you that resembles what Jedi wear. And then I'm going to talk to some of our suspects. I would _prefer_ it if you stayed within sight."

"But say nothing?"

Obi-Wan's mouth twitched in a half-smile. "Oh, no," he murmured. "I rather imagine that you might put them off their guard, or discover things I cannot."

Anakin was puzzled. Watto had often instructed him to remain silent. Slaves were neither _seen_ nor _heard_, he knew. A good slave simply faded into the background, like an astromech droid. He'd been disciplined on occasion for his curiosity when a customer brought in some exotic circuit he'd never before seen.

"How?"

"People tend to underestimate children," Obi-Wan replied. "They won't be as on their guard around you. They will, in fact, make allowances for you where they would not for an adult."

"Like if I got bored and poked around their house a bit?" Anakin asked, shrewdly.

"Possibly," Obi-Wan said.

* * *

The palace tailor was a short man, aided by a battered droid that he insisted had served the kings and queens of Naboo for over a century, and that there was no sense in replacing it as it had developed a feel for the job by now.

Obi-Wan was not so sure about that, but he deferred to the man's expertise as he eyed Obi-Wan's clothing and laid swatches of fabric against it, trying to find something that would approximately match what the Jedi wore in spirit, if not in feel.

Finally, the tailor grunted as he found something that might match. The material was somewhat finer than what the Jedi usually wore, but they had to make allowances, Obi-Wan thought.

"That boy need a cloak as well?"

Obi-Wan studied his charge. Anakin was standing as still as he could, though he was gazing in rapt attention at the droid that was taking his measurements. Of course Anakin would be fascinated by the droid, Obi-Wan thought. It was a model he'd never encountered before, and he remembered the boy's fascination with mechanical things.

"No," he replied. "He'll get one when we return to the Temple."

The tailor nodded. "Boy hasn't hit the growing age yet," he said, "But I can put a bit of allowance into his clothing, to let him grow into it, anyway."

Obi-Wan considered it. On one hand, it made little sense when Anakin could easily receive standard-issue clothing from the Temple. On the other hand, it seemed wasteful to have the tailor make Jedi clothes for Anakin that he would only wear for several days.

"All right," he said. "Do it, please."

The tailor began folding up the other swatches of fabric and returning them to their proper places on his shelves. "Anyhow, his current clothing is filthy," he said, matter-of-factly. "It should really be turned into rags at this point, but—"

"No!"

That was Anakin, who must have overheard the tailor's comment.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan said, warning in his voice.

"S'all I have," Anakin muttered. He glanced pleadingly at Obi-Wan. "Can't I, you know…?"

"Anakin," Obi-Wan said. "Do you know what an 'attachment' is?"

Anakin frowned. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Obi-Wan glanced at the tailor, who nodded and prudently withdrew, muttering that he had to see to putting in work on Anakin's clothes and that they were lucky he was doing them a favour and delaying his other orders in order to make sure Anakin had something suitable to wear.

He beckoned. Reluctantly, Anakin came over. Obi-Wan sat, folding his legs beneath him, and gestured for Anakin to sit down on the floor of the shop as well.

"Anakin," he said. "Perhaps I should have explained this to you earlier. The Jedi frown on attachment."

"What _is_ an attachment?"

How did he explain the core and the foundation of Jedi philosophy to a nine year old boy? Obi-Wan cast his mind back to the classes he'd had in the Temple and the lessons he'd had with Qui-Gon.

"Let us begin from the beginning, then," he said, at last. "Although this is a poor place for your first lesson."

Anakin grinned. "Could've fooled me," he said. It struck Obi-Wan, then, that Anakin was mercurial: he angered swiftly, but the anger gave way just as quickly to bouts of cheer, good humour, and even generosity.

_You must remember this,_ he told himself. It was his task to know his Padawan.

"The Jedi say that there is just one thing," Obi-Wan told him. "And that is the Force."

"You talked about it a lot."

Obi-Wan nodded. "We do. What was it Qui-Gon told you about the Force?"

Anakin frowned, but came up with the answer a moment later. "That it was the Force that gave a Jedi his power."

"That is true," Obi-Wan said, cautiously. "Or at least, that is one aspect of it. To the Jedi, the Force is a substance—an energy field, if you will—that is created by all living things. It surrounds us, it penetrates us, and it binds the galaxy together."

"What about droids?" Anakin wanted to know. "They're not living things. Are they part of the Force as well?"

Obi-Wan said, "The Force is created by all living things; in the same way, all living things subsist within the Force." He tapped at Anakin's arm. "We often say, 'We are luminous beings, not this crude matter.' The saying is meant to remind you that separateness, that self is an illusion."

Anakin's expression grew thoroughly confused. "All right," he said, even though Obi-Wan knew he wasn't following.

"Don't worry too much about the details," Obi-Wan said. "Your instructors at the Temple will go over the issues with you in greater depth over the coming years. Just know that it is a problem: if all life participates in and is nothing more than a part of the Force, then what is physical matter? What about droids, which are, after all, made of physical matter? Do these participate in the Force?" He looked at Anakin. "I am sorry to have to tell you that we do not have satisfactory answers to this question. But if you like, I can give you some readings on the matter when we're back at the Temple."

"All…right…" Anakin said, with more uncertainty.

Obi-Wan returned to the matter at hand. "You encountered the Sith Lord on Tatooine. How did he make you feel?"

Anakin screwed up his face in concentration, trying to remember. "Afraid," he said at last. "It felt like…like I was walking on fire, and the fire was coming after me. Like he hated me, but at the same time, I was nothing more than a bug he was gonna squash."

Obi-Wan nodded. "The Sith are users of what we call the Dark Side of the Force."

"So do the Jedi use the Light Side, then?"

Obi-Wan frowned. "We don't refer to it as the 'Light Side', per se," he replied, cautiously. "To the Jedi, there is only one Force, indivisible. As Master Kvaseth often puts it, 'The Force does not take sides, so how can it have sides?' Nonetheless, we speak of aspects of the Force—which are not something you need to worry about right now."

"Details?"

Obi-Wan matched his smile. "Yes. Quite. Do you remember the fountain in the courtyard?"

"You said the Force was like a stream," Anakin said. "That if we were angry, or afraid, or if we…if we hated, then the stream would become dirty."

Obi-Wan nodded. "'Clouded', rather. But essentially correct. The Dark Side, Anakin, doesn't exist independently. There is only the Force." He tapped his chest. "The darkness comes from _here_. When you are angry, when you are afraid, or when you hate, you taint the Force in you—and the part of the Force that you are. You taint the bits of the Force you come in contact with. In a way, you corrupt it. That is what the Dark Side _is_. It's a corruption of the Force."

Anakin frowned. "So the Dark Side is bad?"

"Very," Obi-Wan confirmed. "That's why we don't say we use the 'Light Side'. Words have power, Anakin, and words guide our concepts."

"Okay," Anakin said, dubiously.

"We use the Force. And because a Jedi's strength emerges from the Force, when he is guided by the Force, when he is at peace and one with the Force, rather than when he is contaminating the Force with his own desires, anger is toxic to a Jedi."

"And…what does that have to do with attachments?"

"Everything is impermanent, Anakin," Obi-Wan said. "That is the truth the Jedi embrace. Was there a toy you loved when you were younger?"

"Mr Scruffy," Anakin said, eventually. He looked at Obi-Wan, his eyes challenging the older man to laugh. Obi-Wan did not. "He was a bantha. Mum made him for me, from scrap. He was beautiful—the other kids didn't have anything like him."

"What happened to him?"

"Forzy took him away," Anakin said. "I should've been stronger—I'd have stopped him. He beat me up, too. I could've gotten away but I didn't want to get away without Mr Scruffy."

Obi-Wan sighed. "It's not about becoming stronger and beating up the people who might do so to us, Anakin. These things are attachments. They're the desire to grasp, to claim for our own. To possess. To want. To control. To the Jedi, our answer to these is non-attachment. It doesn't mean not loving the things in our life. But it means we need to learn to love them without having to cling to them." He looked at Anakin. "Anakin, your mother did a terribly, terribly selfless thing. She let Qui-Gon take you to give you a better life, while she remained behind—"

"But she had to!" Anakin yelled, stricken. "Watto wouldn't let her go, and I hate him!"

His outburst lingered. Obi-Wan said nothing.

"I'm not sorry," Anakin added.

Obi-Wan let out a frustrated breath. "Anakin," he said, eventually. "Your mother could have refused to let you go. She could have prevailed upon Qui-Gon to let you remain with her, and Qui-Gon would never have called in the debt. Watto would have been delighted. Instead, she loved you—but she chose to let you go. And that is love without attachment, Anakin. That is what the Jedi strive for. Because attachment breeds anger. It breeds resentment. It breeds unhappiness."

"And anger is bad, I get it," Anakin mumbled.

"No," Obi-Wan said. "You don't. At least, not yet. And possession is a form of attachment. A Jedi must be willing to let belongings pass out of his life."

"Then why do you use his lightsaber?" Anakin challenged.

Obi-Wan met his gaze. "I should not," he admitted. "And Jedi philosophy often prevaricates where it should not. We consider our lightsabers extensions of ourselves and permit ourselves these. But we still attempt to live as simply as possible, without personal possessions. More importantly, Anakin, possession isn't about material things."

He pinched the material of Anakin's clothing and tugged lightly at it.

"Possession is a _state_ of mind. And it is especially this state which Jedi attempt to avoid."

Anakin sighed and was silent for a time. Obi-Wan let him be.

"Why is being a Jedi so hard?"

"I don't know," Obi-Wan said, honestly. "But I think that if the Jedi path were easy, it would not be worth walking."

"There are many things that aren't easy," Anakin said. "But I'd bet they aren't worth it." He looked at Obi-Wan, almost defiantly. "Like being a slave."

"No," Obi-Wan agreed. "They aren't." He added, a heartbeat later, "These never are."

* * *

Captain Panaka looked at him warily when Obi-Wan requested the contact details of the Five. "The palace doesn't keep this kind of information," he said at last. "The Queen won't have it."

"I know," Obi-Wan said. He cast a glance back; there would be time later to instruct Anakin in Jedi proprierity, he thought. As it was, the boy wore a borrowed tunic and trousers, having grudgingly relenquished the clothing he'd brought with him from Tatooine to the palace tailor. He was fidgeting and doing a poor job of hiding his restlessness. "But I figured you would know where I could obtain such information."

Captain Panaka narrowed his eyes. "You investigating them, then?" he asked, bluntly.

Obi-Wan nodded. "I have been instructed to open an investigation into the Five," he said.

Captain Panaka's eyes glinted with interest. "I see," he replied. "Good. They've had it coming, Jedi Kenobi."

"Do you really consider them to be capable of such a deed?"

Captain Panaka shrugged. "I'm a security officer, Kenobi. My job is to think about every possible way someone could kill my Queen and to make it as impossible for them to do so as I can. I don't ask why: kings and queens of Naboo have been killed before, and even if I succeed in keeping her alive, she won't be the last to have such attempts made on her. Maybe she's wrong about the Five being involved. But even if she is, it's not my job to investigate and find out who did it and why. I just need to keep her alive. Every day she's still breathing is a success for me, as far as I'm concerned."

"In your personal opinion, then."

Captain Panaka went still as he considered the question. "Perhaps," he admitted, grudgingly. "The Five have always been wealthy and powerful, and with that comes the desire to have more power. King Arjuna had tried to put a stop to that. And they killed him."

"And your Queen is a danger to them?"

The captain of palace security said, "They could've foreseen a threat to them. The Queen has never been particularly friendly towards the Five in her political speeches." He shrugged, helplessly. "I can't really say."

"I understand," Obi-Wan said. "Thank you for your time, Captain. Would you know how I could obtain information on the Five?"

Captain Panaka nodded crisply. "Go into the city," he said. "The central administrative office is along Karthana Boulevard, and they track the residence addresses of all the citizens of Naboo from the local registration offices."

Obi-Wan nodded appreciatively. "Thank you, Captain."

"Thank me by finding the womprat that did it," Captain Panaka instructed him. "I want to string his worthless hide from the highest tower of the palace."

* * *

Anakin trudged along behind Obi-Wan. The Jedi walked with an easy grace, and on occasion, he would walk quickly enough, almost leaving Anakin behind, until Anakin had to jog to keep up with him. He'd noticed and apologised the first two times it'd happened.

Staying on Naboo with Obi-Wan had seemed a wizard idea at first. He didn't like the idea of being shipped off conveniently to the Temple and forgotten about, but he hadn't thought that following Obi-Wan around as his apprentice would involve so much talking and waiting either.

He itched to do _something_. He wasn't really the sort of person who could sit around and just wait, the way Obi-Wan seemed to be able to do so. And his new clothes were uncomfortable, Anakin decided. They were too _soft_, with none of the rough textures he'd familiarised himself with from home.

(Shmi deserved a fine life with good food and soft clothes, part of him admonished.)

He busied himself gawking at Theed. Coruscant had easily been the _biggest_ city he'd ever seen, but he'd stayed in the Jedi Temple most of the time and hadn't been able to explore it. Theed, on the other hand, he imagined, was smaller than Coruscant, and yet…

There were so _many_ people. They thronged the streets pockmarked with scorch blasts and concave impact marks from the plasma cannons of the Gungans and the artillery of the Trade Federation, laughing, talking, and generally being busy. A good amount of the rubble had been cleared away, but still, Anakin had never seen so many people in one place in his entire life.

Many of them seemed to be chiefly focused on their own business: men and women dressed in the colourful Naboo clothing who strode quickly towards their destinations. Others stopped and gawked at the many things on sale in the marketplace. Stallholders called out, advertising their wares. It reminded him of Mos Espa, but Mos Espa was where you went because of the profitable trade with the moisture farmers and the smugglers and the freighter pilots, and none of them carried things like bolts of brightly coloured cloth, which would have turned grey with dust very quickly on Tatooine.

And the fruit: he thought he'd caught sight of a fruit-seller, peddling all sorts of garish fruit, oranges included. He might've stopped to take a closer look, but he almost lost Obi-Wan, until a hand closed firmly around his upper arm and led him on.

"Don't get lost," Obi-Wan said, firmly, into his ear. "If you do, I'll have a great deal of difficulty finding you."

"All right," Anakin said, a little put out. He'd wanted to see more of the Theed marketplace, but he understood what Obi-Wan meant: they were busy doing Jedi things and investigating who it was who might've tried to kill Padmé. He could get behind that.

Even if it was awfully, awfully boring.

* * *

Locating the central administrative office proved to be far easier than Obi-Wan had feared. They had chosen to walk down from the palace rather than commissioning a landspeeder from the palace garage. It would be good for Anakin, Obi-Wan thought. He could tell that the boy was fairly bursting with repressed energy, and perhaps a long, leisurely walk might do both of them good.

Anakin, at least, seemed to be reacting quite well to the change of scenery, after having been cooped up in the palace for the past few days.

In addition, most of the Naboo were especially helpful when stopped and gave clear directions. Obi-Wan estimated that it had only taken them about fifteen minutes of walking to locate the unremarkable building among the rows of residences and shophouses.

A sign above the wooden doors proclaimed that the building was the CENTRAL ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICE OF NABOO in both Basic and Naboo script, and Obi-Wan took that to be confirmation enough. He pushed open the heavy door and gestured for Anakin to precede him.

The office itself was an air-conditioned space with a reception and a waiting area of many empty seats. A few of the Naboo were themselves waiting. Another sign instructed visitors to report to the reception counter first while a large screen hanging from the ceiling indicated which queue number was currently being handled.

Obi-Wan crossed over to the reception desk. "Good afternoon," he said. "I'd like to speak to someone regarding the contact details of the—"

"You'll have to take a queue number first, sir," said the protocol droid at the counter.

Obi-Wan said, "It is a matter of some—"

"No queue number, no queries," the protocol droid said. "The regulations are quite firm in that regard, citizen."

Obi-Wan nodded gracefully. "I'd like to take a queue number, then."

"Over there," the protocol droid said, in that same, far-too-cheery voice. It gestured to a terminal leaning against the far wall. Without further ado, Obi-Wan turned and headed for the terminal.

"I hate droids," he muttered. "They typically lack imagination."

"You could've told him you were a Jedi," Anakin whispered.

"I could've," Obi-Wan confirmed, accessing the terminal and scrolling down the list of options he was presented with. "But would it have changed the droid's mind?"

Anakin frowned. "Well," he said. "I s'pose I could reprogram it for you. If you want me to."

"Thank you, but no." Obi-Wan selected the option of an appointment with a bureau official and the machine spat out his queue ticket. He compared the printed number with the one currently on the screen and blanched. "Let this be a lesson to you, Anakin. The wheels of bureaucracy grind exceedingly slow, and even we Jedi have to respect them."

Anakin groaned as they found a pair of empty seats and settled in to wait. "What's the point of being Jedi if no one cares?" he asked. "I mean, you've got those lightsabers, and the Force, but you can't do anything."

"The Jedi do not like to speak in terms of power," Obi-Wan said. "Because power implies control, and dominion, and a Jedi seeks to neither control nor dominate—"

"Power _is_ power," Anakin pointed out. "You have it even if you don't want to say it." Watto had never needed to _talk_ about the power he had over Anakin and Shmi. The fact he had it was obvious and implicit in how he'd always asserted it.

"Your focus determines your reality," Obi-Wan continued, unfazed. "For the Jedi, to think in terms of power is to entertain a dangerous thought—"

"Why do you spend so much time being afraid, then?"

There was silence, even amidst the cheerful, relaxing music being played in the waiting room. Most of the Naboo pretended to be engaged in their holomagazines or broadsheets.

He reminded himself that he was feeling frustration, that it was normal. He breathed it out, feeling the tight feeling in his muscles ease itself; moving out of his being with his exhalation. "We are not afraid," Obi-Wan said, firmly. "You confuse fear with wariness, Anakin. You can be cautious of fire because you know fire will hurt you. But fear does not always accompany caution."

"All right," Anakin said. "But I still think you have power. You're just not acknowledging it."

"What would acknowledging it constitute?" Obi-Wan asked.

Now that he was put on the spot, Anakin hedged. "Well, I guess you could walk up to that droid and threaten to cut it down with your lightsaber if it didn't get you an appointment with a bureau official right now."

Obi-Wan stood up and strode over to the protocol droid.

"Sir," the droid said, "I must insist you wait your turn—"

The snap-hiss of Qui-Gon's lightsaber cut the droid off, and the Naboo in the administrative office gave up all pretence of feigning disinterest. The bright green glow of Qui-Gon's lightsaber—now Obi-Wan's—was eye-catching.

"My apprentice," Obi-Wan said, "Thinks I should cut you down with my lightsaber if you do not get me an appointment with a bureau official who can deal with my queries in an appropriate manner this instant."

The protocol droid said, "Sir, regulations are regulations. I am afraid I cannot help but insist that you wait your turn. An official will attend to you shortly."

"Did you hear that, Anakin?" Obi-Wan asked, making sure his voice carried to the boy in the corner. "What do you suggest I do now? Cut down the droid as I have said I would?"

Anakin was silent.

"Assume," Obi-Wan said, feinting and moving the lightsaber from high-guard to a deliberately-slow cut that circled far above the droid's head. "Assume that I follow through with my threat and I cut this droid down. Do you think an official would see me then? What about—" he mimed a stab, now. "If I broke the terminal at their reception?"

Anakin said, "I guess they'd _have_ to talk to you then."

Obi-Wan flicked the lightsaber off, abruptly. "Thank you for your patience," he told the protocol droid, as he sheathed the weapon. "That is the problem with power and threats, Anakin. I'll allow you to think in terms of power for the time being. Let us say, then, that a person with power is in a position to issue threats. But threats unbacked by force and the willingness to use them are empty. The protocol droid knows I would not in fact cut it down. Hence, it has no reason to fear my threat. The use of threats and force is a commitment, Padawan. It puts you on a course of action from which you can no longer deflect yourself, for fear of appearing weak or rendering your threats useless."

"So you never threaten, then?"

"People react to force in different ways," Obi-Wan assented. "On occasion, they may react in the manner you want. On occasion, this may only further encourage them to act against you. Knowing when to apply force and when not to is an important part of being a Jedi. If I had struck down that droid, I would most likely have had to continue demolishing the reception desk and the waiting room, on pain of appearing weak and foolish when no official came out. I would, in fact, have almost certainly destroyed the good name of the Jedi Order and damaged any good relations our work on Naboo might have established between the Naboo and the Order." He patted the lightsaber that hung at his side. "Understand this, Anakin. A lightsaber is not a weapon. It is a responsibility. The first and most important lesson of the lightsaber you will _ever_ have to master is when to use it and when not to use it."

He looked around at the silent waiting room. "My apologies," he said aloud. "My apprentice and I were just having a philosophical discussion."

They looked torn between shock, bemusement, confusion, and fear. Some of them had begun inching in the direction of the door or of the intercom.

"Master Jedi?"

Obi-Wan turned. An official dressed in a formal suit stood at the entrance of the corridor leading from the waiting room. Her dark hair was tightly tied up in a bun and her eyes gleamed with amusement. "Your pedagogy leaves much to be desired, but your point has been taken into consideration," she said. "If you will follow me, the Office will attend to your request now."

Smiling and gesturing for a gaping Anakin to follow him, Obi-Wan inclined his head in thanks, and moved after the official.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry to all for the time taken for the next installment. Thesis continues to suck away my life. Also, one comment is that while I know fanon (and I suppose, to some extent, everything after the OT) tends to talk about the 'Light Side' as the necessary opposite to the Dark Side, the OT doesn't actually use that term. It's the Force, and the Dark Side of the Force. So in this fic, I've chosen to offer a drastically different take: there is no Light Side, and the Jedi don't like to use the concept of the 'Light Side'. The presence of Darkness does not imply Light; neither does it immediately entail that the Force is a binary. The point of failure is in fact regarding the Force to be two opposing binaries: 'the Light Side' versus 'the Dark Side', 'us versus them'. It sheds a new light on Obi-Wan's self-referentially paradoxical claim that "Only a Sith Lord deals in absolutes." Because to the Sith, the Force must be so fragmented and divided. To a Jedi, it is not._

_Some might feel that I've already been too charitable to the Jedi by allowing Obi-Wan to concede that love without attachment is acceptable, especially if Episode 1 Obi-Wan is a beacon of orthodoxy. I concede the point. In this fic, I'm generally depicting Obi-Wan as having a strongly orthodox streak, but as Qui-Gon's student (who we all know is the ultimate maverick.) I'm drawing on the quasi-canon of Qui-Gon being a proponent of the Living Force, a doctrine which emphasises (as I see it) compassion (a kind of love, in Anakin's eyes, but he's not quite wrong about that), and benevolence, and a strong dose of mettā. His influence on Obi-Wan has nudged Obi-Wan to have a healthy amount of respect for other living beings (despite Obi-Wan's current fastidiousness); in either case, he's at least aware that love without attachment is a theoretical possibility, even if he's not thinking about the kind of love Anakin will later fall in!_

_Last, Anakin. In some areas of philosophy and in international relations, there's a huge clash between two rough positions (this is me leaving out lots of details). One position is approximately Hobbesian (realism, in IR); it thinks in terms of power, and it regards all beings as: A. fundamentally self-interested, B. always unsatiably interested in accumulating power. (Actually, there's a third assumption in IR realism which involves one of anarchy. But this isn't entirely germane so I'll leave it out.) For Hobbes, the only solution is for everyone to surrender power and to put it in the hands of a sovereign. (Sounds familiar? See: Episode 2 Anakin.) On the other hand, some positions think that it isn't only about power. Sure, from a third-person perspective (and sometimes not even that!), it looks like people crave power and that's all there is to it, but we're people too. And from our own experience, we know people are governed by norms. What are norms? They're rules that guide behaviour. "Don't beat people. Don't kill. Don't steal." Etcetera. Anakin's experience hasn't predisposed him towards the idea of norms. Sure, Shmi's instilled a strong sense of values in him. ("I'm proud of you, you've brought hope to those who have none." Think about his offering of shelter, and his telling Shmi that she's always said that the worst thing is that people don't help other people.) But the world he's looking at is a world in which: A. he does not have power, B. other people have power and do whatever they please, most often at the expense of the powerless, which, very importantly, includes himself, his mum, and the other slaves-in short, he's looking at a world which by and large doesn't seem to follow any sorts of behaviour-guiding norms._

_So Anakin is starting as a boy who is rather mature, and in some ways, rather cynical, and yet rather naive, with a wide exuberant streak. He largely thinks about power, and yet he wants things to be different: like how Shmi taught him, and like how he's expected the Jedi to be. A lot of his development will be on the conflict between how he thinks the world is like and how everyone else tells him the world is like._

_Cheers,_

_-Ammaren_


	11. Dreams and Desires

**In All The World**

Summary: The story of how Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tamed each other, from Naboo to Anakin's early days at the Temple. Slow-building Anakin/Obi-Wan friendship.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Dreams and Desires**

The central administrative office itself was a maze. Obi-Wan followed the official down further winding corridors, past cubicles full of staff working at terminals, and up a flight of stairs.

"I don't understand," Anakin said, at last. "Our number wasn't up."

"It wasn't?" Obi-Wan kept his voice bland. "I wonder why."

Anakin peered suspiciously at him. "You did _something_, didn't you?"

"What makes you think I did?"

"Otherwise, we'd have had to wait and wait," Anakin said. "But then suddenly _she_ came out and told us she'd talk to us now."

"Hmm," Obi-Wan said, non-committally.

"So you must have done something, to make them move faster."

"What makes you think so?" Obi-Wan asked. "Perhaps they were always going to expedite our request; you simply did not think they would do so."

Anakin fell silent in thought.

After three flights of stairs, they emerged onto a landing and from there into another set of cubicles. The official guided them into the one on the left. "I am Kiraé Uhfara," she said, introducing herself.

"I am Obi-Wan Kenobi," Obi-Wan responded. "And this is my student, Anakin Skywalker." He motioned to Anakin, gently.

"Hi," Anakin said, cheerfully.

"Hi," Kiraé said, although her serious demeanour did not change. She looked at Obi-Wan. "I must inform you that your display gave office security hysterics."

Obi-Wan bowed his head. "Please convey my sincere apologies to them."

"I don't get it," Anakin said, aloud.

"Fortunately," Kiraé said, "The reputation of your Order convinced them you were merely making a point, but we nevertheless decided to expedite your request. So, what can I do for you, Jedi Kenobi?"

Obi-Wan said, "Perhaps you could first explain to my student what happened." He hid his amusement as best as he could. "He seems highly confused by the situation."

Kiraé looked at Anakin. "What happened," she informed him, "Is that your teacher was very clever."

Anakin blinked. "All right?" he said, a note of confusion in his voice.

"The waiting room has closed-circuit surveillance cameras installed," Kiraé explained, "As do most government buildings, for purposes of security. Naturally, your teacher attracted a great deal of attention the moment he switched on his lightsaber and began swinging it around. Office security got somewhat upset, but this convinced them to refer your case to a senior official rather than waiting for the queue system to process your request."

"So the threat worked," Anakin said.

"Actually," Obi-Wan cut in, "It didn't."

"But she said they started looking once you switched on your lightsaber."

Kiraé interjected, "I said that he caught their attention by switching on his lightsaber. While they did not believe he would use it on a member of the public or on our reception droid, they were still highly uncomfortable with the idea of a live weapon in the waiting room. But in any case, the moment they were aware that a member of the Jedi Order was present in the waiting room, they referred it to a senior official as they determined it was out of their hands to decide whether to grant priority to a Jedi."

"And that was you?"

Kiraé nodded. "And I agreed. Captain Panaka called ahead from the palace. He mentioned that you were investigating on a matter of state security."

"I shall have to convey him my regards," Obi-Wan murmured. To Anakin, "Do you see now?"

"You knew all along?" Anakin wondered, aloud. "_That's _why you went about waving your lightsaber?"

Obi-Wan said, "Most government buildings have surveillance cameras. I knew this one was likely to have one. I also knew it was likely our case would be expedited if they recognised we were Jedi, and that droid was unlikely to accept our credentials." He looked pointedly at Anakin. "There are solutions, Anakin, that don't involve violence or the threat of violence. For all the Jedi are known as warriors, we are known for many other things; as diplomats, as peacekeepers, as enforcers. That was the point I was trying to make."

Anakin fidgeted and glanced around. The cubicle was a neat one, he noticed, with lots of folders stacked onto an overhanging shelf. There was a painting on the wall, depicting a sparkling patch of blue that took several long moments for him to identify as a lake. There was lots of green too, and flowers blooming on the shore.

"All right," he muttered, just a touch sullenly. "I get it now."

"You'll learn," Obi-Wan said, firmly. Anakin wasn't sure if it was meant to be reassuring. He leaned over to glance at the painting. "It's beautiful. A Valenti, isn't it?"

Kiraé nodded, smiling. "You know your painters well, Master Jedi."

"Please," Obi-Wan said, the folds of his sleeves slipping over his clasped hands. "It's just Jedi Kenobi."

"Jedi Kenobi, then," Kiraé assented. "Dasca Valenti was a Naboo painter," she explained, "And considered one of the greatest in our history. For this reason, many government offices and private citizens favour his works. This one is of the Lake Country; one of the retreats popular with schoolchildren and citizens alike."

"Wizard," Anakin breathed. He almost reached out to touch it, and then checked himself. _Don't touch other people's things without permission_, Shmi would have said, no matter how mesmerising the painting was. It was still hard to think of that much water, or that much soft grass and flowers and sunlight. The suns on Tatooine were harsh and burning. He turned to Obi-Wan. "Will we go there?"

"I doubt it," Obi-Wan said. "We won't be terribly long on Naboo, Anakin. And the Lake Country, I understand, is a distance from Theed."

"That it is," Kiraé agreed. "Although it's a pity. The Lake Country is one of Naboo's greatest treasures, and it was far-sighted of King Tariyal to enact legislation declaring the Lake Country a protected site important to our national heritage." She shook her head lightly. "Still, I'm sure you didn't come here for information on the sights of Naboo, much less to learn about our history. What can I do for you, Jedi Kenobi?"

"Captain Panaka did not inform you?"

"Not as such," Kiraé replied. "He only mentioned that you were coming and requested that we give your request priority as it involves a matter of state security."

Obi-Wan weighed how much he ought to say. Judging from how fast word travelled, that there was an assassination attempt in the palace would surely be a matter of public knowledge by now. Even so, he could hear Adi Gallia's voice, admonishing that he never need unsay what had never been said in the first place. It was best to play his cards close to his hand for now. "We would like to call on certain members of the Five," he said, and listed off the names of the representatives who had been present for the audience.

To her credit, Kiraé was mostly successful in concealing her surprise. "You're looking for the addresses of their private residences, then," she said. "But I'll try to look up their offices as well; they might be with one or two of their ventures rather than at home."

Obi-Wan gave a nod of assent. She sat down at the terminal and began running a search of the Office's database with a few quick keystrokes.

Anakin found his gaze drifting once again to the painting of the lake. It _was_ beautiful, he thought. It was the kind of beauty that was so transparent, like glass, that you could look through it and lose yourself. "I wish we could go there," he murmured.

Quietly, Obi-Wan said, "I know."

* * *

Obi-Wan studied the printout that Kiraé had handed them and abruptly, he began to chuckle. "What?" Anakin wanted to know. He was back to struggling to keep up as Obi-Wan strode on ahead of him.

Alerted, Obi-Wan once again slowed his pace. "Well," he said, "It's getting late, and we're not likely to be able to meet with more than two members of the Five today. I'm aiming to speak with Theré Helukala and Iben Derriva today, since both of them have residences and office branches within Theed."

"So?" Anakin asked. He wasn't getting it.

"See for yourself, then," Obi-Wan said. He handed Anakin the flimsi printout. Anakin took the crinkling sheet and glanced at it. He was a bit slow at reading some of the words, but even when he'd finished, he still didn't understand.

"I don't get it," he said, aloud. He held out the flimsi. Obi-Wan retrieved it, folded it, and deftly tucked it into one of the many tool-pouches on his utility belt.

"Two of the people we have to meet are Ren Yvar and Sirdaé Ersken. The Yvar family deals primarily in the homefarms and exotic spices and fruit, while the Ersken family obtain their wealth from the vineyards in the highlands. Their places of residence are near the Lake Country."

Anakin blinked. And then it registered.

"Whoopee!" he cheered, hopping about madly in his excitement. "We're going there after all, aren't we? Aren't we?"

Laughing, Obi-Wan held out a hand to forestall him. "Yes, it seems we're going to the Lake Country after all," he said. "You've got your wish. However, the Lake Country is a distance away from Theed and we're going to need to travel by landspeeder or by hover-train. As such, we're not going there until the day after tomorrow."

Anakin groaned. "Why can't we go tomorrow?"

"The victory celebrations," Obi-Wan said simply.

"What celebrations?"

Obi-Wan sighed. "I forgot—no one told you," he murmured. "The parade celebrating victory over the Trade Federation and meant to usher in a new era of Naboo-Gungan peace and cooperation. As the heroes of Naboo," he made a face, "We both are, of course, expected to be present."

"Do you think it'll last?" Anakin wanted to know.

Obi-Wan considered the question. "They have a shared history," he said, at last. "Even if it's one of animosity. But Queen Amidala is open-minded, and I think she'll be fair to them. And I think that peace and cooperation between the two peoples would be a good thing for Naboo."

"But you don't know if it'll last," Anakin noted, shrewdly.

"Well," Obi-Wan said, acknowledging Anakin's point with a sigh, "It's always very difficult to say. Certainly, the seeds for a lasting partnership are there. But there are always hotheads willing to stir trouble, and more importantly, there are limits to Queen Amidala's term. Whether the peace will outlast her reign is a question of concern. In short, Anakin, I don't know." He smiled, faintly. "Even Jedi have difficulty seeing the future."

Anakin shook his head. "I've had dreams," he said, stubbornly. "Dreams that the Jedi would come and take me away from Tatooine one day." He shot Obi-Wan a sideways glance; both fierce and raw at the same time. "And that I'd one day come back to Tatooine and free all the slaves." He added, a few moments later, "I've had other dreams. Some of them come true." Like when he'd dreamed of himself, desperate and excited, sitting in what he would later recognise to be the cockpit of his Podracer, racing Sebulba in the final lap of the Boonta Eve Classic.

Had he built the pod because of his dream? Or had he dreamed of something in the future? The thought crept up on him with an instinctive urgency he could not quite understand.

Obi-Wan hesitated, mid-stride. "Perhaps," he said. For some reason, he sounded terribly troubled. "Anakin," he said, at last, after a long silence. "Relying on dreams is a terribly dangerous thing to do."

"Why?" Anakin challenged.

Obi-Wan ran a distracted hand through his short hair. "Dreams pass in time," he said, almost as though he was speaking more to himself than he was to Anakin. "It's easy to become lost in them; to think of them as telling us of what _might be_ rather than what is." He looked at Anakin—actually knelt down, so he was looking directly into Anakin's eyes; his own were frantic, urgent even. Both hands gripped Anakin's shoulders firmly. "Anakin, you must remember this. The danger in dreams doesn't lie in the fact that they're false. If they were lies, it'd be easy to ignore them. Dreams are dangerous because some dreams contain a kernel of truth, lodged in the very heart of them. But most dreams are merely reflections of our deepest hopes and fears and desires."

"It's true," Anakin said, stubbornly. "I know it is." He met Obi-Wan's gaze, unflinching. "I'm here, aren't I? And you're training me to be a Jedi, aren't you?"

Obi-Wan sighed. "You want to see the slaves freed, don't you?"

Anakin nodded. It was the kind of thing, he thought, that shouldn't have needed saying. And yet, it seemed it did. "No one deserves to be a slave," he said, simply. "Once you've been one…you know it's wrong."

Obi-Wan said, sternly, "'Wrong' is a loaded term, Padawan."

Anakin said, hotly, surprising even himself with the sudden anger that welled up deep in him, "Turahn was ten. I was six. They beat him until the skin came off his back and hung him in the open until he died. Tell me it wasn't wrong for someone to own him, to have the right to do that to him. Go on."

Obi-Wan rubbed at his eyes wearily and looked away. "I owe you an apology, Anakin," he said, eventually. "You are quite right—there are many wrongs associated with slavery. My point, however, was just that you rightly desire slavery on Tatooine to end."

"And?" Anakin felt slightly mollified, but he didn't think he was quite ready to let Obi-Wan off, just yet. "What about that?"

"That's what I mean by desires and hopes," Obi-Wan said. "You want it to end. You hope it will end. Is it a dream with some element of truth? Or is it a reflection of what you most dearly _want_?"

Anakin chewed on his lip. "Does it matter?"

Obi-Wan said, "If you think your dream is a guide to what happens, then it does matter. If the dream is merely a reflection of your desires—or your deepest fears—then allowing yourself to be guided by it is dangerous. It neglects reality."

"I don't understand."

"I'll tell you what Qui-Gon told me," Obi-Wan said. "There is a traditional children's story from the planet of Akrasia, which is in the Telos system. There, they believe that all dreams must pass through either of two gates. The first is a gate of polished horn; the second a gate of wrought ivory."

Anakin frowned, trying to imagine those looming gates.

"Dreams that pass through the gate of ivory are false dreams," Obi-Wan continued. "They can deceive us, being nothing more than mere shadows. But the dreams that pass through the gate of horn—these are the true dreams, the ones that come to pass. But who can say which gate through which a dream passed? A long time ago, when the galaxy was at war, and sibling was slaying sibling, there was a man whose only daughter had gone off to fight in the distant stars."

Anakin frowned. "There were wars?"

"Countless ones," Obi-Wan confirmed. "One night, he had a dream that his daughter had perished in battle. He woke up and said to himself, 'Surely this dream comes from the gate of ivory,' for he was old, and his daughter was the most precious thing to him in all the world, and he did not want to think of her death. He went about his business, and at the same time, kept listening for word of how the war was progressing. A week later, the dream returned. The old man said to himself, 'What has happened once may happen again.' But the dream sat uneasily with him. The third time the dream came, the old man hanged himself. The next day, the war ended, and the deployed troops returned home, among them the man's daughter."

Anakin shuddered. "That's _horrible_," he murmured, thinking of the nameless daughter returning to an empty house. (And Shmi, would she still be there when he came back for her?)

Obi-Wan nodded. "It is. But that's why dwelling on dreams, Anakin, is like playing with fire. They are better forgotten. Come. We have two people to visit." He straightened up, and relenquished his hold on Anakin.

Anakin nodded obediently. But he could not help the gut-deep conviction that for all Obi-Wan talked about false dreams, that there were true ones too, and that his were one of them.

* * *

Among the Five, the Derriva family's power lay in its connections with the judiciary and the legislators. According to the briefing material Obi-Wan had read prior to the audience, 'Derriva &amp; Partners' was the most prominent legal firm on Naboo, with a long history.

Perhaps because of that, the main office of their Theed branch could be found in one of the oldest sectors of the city: among a neat row of stone apartments. An elegant wrought-iron fence surrounded the property; the sign 'DERRIVA &amp; PARTNERS' was chiselled into the pale yellow stone of the arched wooden door.

Motioning to Anakin to keep close, Obi-Wan reached over and worked the gate open. It slid noiselessly on oiled hinges; they proceeded through a small flowering garden, which Anakin goggled at, and then Obi-Wan located the buzzer by the door and pressed it.

A moment later, he pushed open the heavy door and beckoned Anakin in first before closing the door lightly behind them.

The interior of the apartment building had been converted into a spacious reception room; the building itself had looked to be about five storeys high from the outside. Obi-Wan suspected that the entire block itself was owned by the Derriva family. Certainly, while a few clients waited in the reception room, lounging about on plush chairs in the temperature-controlled room, most of the activity was not to be found here.

He approached the reception desk and leaned on the counter. The receptionist was swift to respond; he glanced up at Obi-Wan and was instantly the picture of solicitousness. "Good day, Master Jedi. Welcome to Derriva &amp; Partners. How may I be of assistance to you?"

"Good day," Obi-Wan replied. "I'd like a meeting with Iben Derriva."

The smile on the receptionist's face barely flickered or dimmed. "I'm afraid that won't be possible," he said. "Iben Derriva is in high demand and his schedule is full of clients—"

"I only ask for a few moments of his time," Obi-Wan said. "If not today, then at the closest possible convenient time—"

"Mr Derriva will not be able to attend to you until at least a month from now," the receptionist said. "I'll put you in his schedule for an appointment on Tuesday in the morning."

Obi-Wan leaned over the counter. "No," he said, firmly. "That will not do."

The receptionist looked at him. "There is no other available time," he repeated.

Obi-Wan pressed his lips in a firm line. "Ask him to make time," he said, unyielding. "I am investigating a matter of state security, and Iben Derriva assured Queen Amidala that he would be willing to render all available assistance in the matter."

The receptionist blanched. "I'll have to talk to him first, Master Jedi," he allowed. He punched in a few numbers on the desk-mounted comlink and had a quick, furtive conversation. It was clear from his sour expression that he didn't like the instructions he had received, and by the time he shut off the comlink, he looked thoroughly disapproving. It was something living beings had in common with droids when set to the same task of sitting at a reception desk, Obi-Wan thought, bemused.

"Mr Derriva says to go on up, Master Jedi," the receptionist said, stiffly. "He occupies the penthouse suite."

Obi-Wan jerked his head in a polite nod of acknowledgement to the receptionist and thanked him. He turned to Anakin. "Come," he said.

"You didn't even need your lightsaber this time," Anakin said. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

The receptionist looked even more scandalised, and Obi-Wan hastily chivvied his very young apprentice out of the receiving room and up the stairs.

"That was uncalled for," he said, quietly. "The receptionist had already acceded to our request. In that respect, he is far more flexible than the droid was."

Anakin blinked innocently at him. "It wasn't a threat," he pointed out.

"Then why did you say it?"

Anakin looked at his feet and bit at his cheek. "Well…" he hedged.

Obi-Wan drew up short and folded his arms across his chest. "Go on," he prompted.

"I didn't like the way he was treating you," Anakin blurted out. "Like you were a waste of his time, or like he was doing _you_ the biggest favour in the world by letting you talk to Mister Derriva when you were doing _him_ the favour, really." He scowled down at his shoe like it was offending him, somehow. "It wasn't right. And it wasn't nice."

Obi-Wan sighed. He was beginning to have the sinking feeling that their time as Master and apprentice would be more or less composed of such exchanges. He sank down to the marble flooring of the staircase and drew his knees up to his chest. "Did telling him that make things any better?"

"It made me feel better," Anakin argued.

Obi-Wan just looked at him. He said nothing.

Anakin twitched. "He should've apologised."

"Many beings, Anakin, do not do what they should do," Obi-Wan said, calmly. "Should we stoop to their level?"

Now, it was Anakin's turn to sigh. "I get it," he said, sullenly. "I'm sorry, all right? I should've just kept quiet and let him treat you like…like _dirt_."

"Does it matter, how someone else treats me?" Obi-Wan countered. "It only reflects the shallowness of his own character, that he does not know any better. You are who you are, Anakin." He tapped Anakin's chest lightly with his hand. "Anakin is here. What people do to you cannot take that away from you. Their opinions and actions should not matter to you."

Anakin shook his head. It mattered, he wanted to say. It mattered because people could do this to you: they could dehumanise you, they could treat you as if you were property, as if you weren't a living being, as if you weren't human. They could take away your voice, flog you, and grind your face further into the dust. Even words mattered. With Watto, it was always, 'Boy'. With Gardulla the Hutt's controllers, it had always only ever been 'Slave', and then a number.

_My name is Anakin,_ he had said. That was important; he understood that instinctively, bone-deep. If the Hutts and the controllers and even Watto wanted to take that away from him, then it was important he hang on to it.

Obi-Wan didn't understand: he lived in this clean world of towering spires, high above the bustle of Coruscant. He lived in a world of water and of grass; of polished glass and clean metal, of non-attachment, whatever that was, and where he always had enough to eat, and where the man he called Master treated him with love.

You didn't carry who you were in your heart, or in the hollow spaces of your chest: you carried it there only because the world let you. Obi-Wan didn't realise that. He didn't know that.

But there was no way to give voice to this complex welter of emotion that rose and threatened to choke him, so instead, Anakin said nothing, just muttered an apology and promised not to do it again.

For a moment, he thought Obi-Wan wasn't convinced—the older Jedi was still looking at him suspiciously, but eventually, Obi-Wan shook his head and stood up. "Very well then," he said, crisply. "Iben Derriva is undoubtedly wondering if his stairway has swallowed us both by now."

* * *

In the years he had spent as Qui-Gon's apprentice, Obi-Wan had seen flamboyant displays of unimaginable wealth, and abject poverty. The penthouse suite of 'Derriva &amp; Partners' proved to fall somewhere between the two poles; it was certainly luxurious enough and spacious. His boots made a sharp sound off the patterned marble floor and paintings from various artists hung on the walls, framed with gold-leaf.

"Come in," called a voice. Obi-Wan recognised it as Iben Derriva and followed it, heading past the palatial space and pushing open the red-streaked wooden door and entering a comfortable study.

The marble floor here was covered with woven rugs in tasteful colours, while another painting hung on the wall, depicting what was most likely a landscape of Naboo. Huge bookshelves containing volumes of law and what was likely old-fashioned client-folders lined the walls: the scents of old paper and wood-polish hung in the air.

On the far side of the room, Obi-Wan noticed a traditional fireplace, where a fire crackled merrily over stacked wooden logs. A poker leaned against it the ornamental metal grate, the latter designed with abstract patterns like curling vines. The centre of the room, however, was taken up by a large, cramped desk and a reclining black armchair of what might even have been natural leather, which squeaked as Iben Derriva shifted position to regard them as they entered.

There were two similar seats before the table, and Iben Derriva rose as he greeted them smoothly and invited them to take a seat. Obi-Wan noticed that he was not wearing a cravat today, but then discovered it a moment later, draped almost-carelessly over a table-lamp.

"Jedi Kenobi," Iben Derriva said. "And I presume this is your apprentice?"

Obi-Wan nodded. "Anakin Skywalker, meet Iben Derriva."

"Hi," Anakin said, and then he fell silent.

Iben Derriva nodded firmly. "I'm pleased to meet you, Anakin," he said, before turning to Obi-Wan. "Well, then. May I offer you a drink, Jedi Kenobi? What of your apprentice? I have all sorts of spirits and fruit juice; our office fridge is rather well-stocked. Of course, I also have stimcaf and tea, if you'd prefer that."

"Tea will be fine, thank you," Obi-Wan said, relaxing into his offered seat. He turned to Anakin. "Juice?"

Anakin blinked. "I…guess?" he said, uncertain. With his mum, it'd always been blue milk or water put through their filtration system—no fruit juice, because fruit juice had to be imported at ruinous expense, and was you drank if you were a wealthy slave owner, not a slave.

"Do you have orange juice?" Obi-Wan asked. "I believe my student would appreciate that."

When Iben Derriva smiled, however faintly, the corners of those stern eyes crinkled. "Yes," he said. "Give me a moment." He picked out a drink-bulb of orange juice from the fridge; Obi-Wan quietly showed Anakin how to work it open, as Derriva found two capsules of tea and added hot water from a dispenser.

"Milk or sugar, Jedi Kenobi?"

"Neither will be just fine, thank you," Obi-Wan said. He sipped, just a little, despite the heat of the liquid and was surprised to feel the sting of memory, even now. The tea was undrinkably bitter, just as he had expected. Just as Qui-Gon had always drunk his; had always insisted that Obi-Wan was ruining his tea with a dash of milk and sweetener.

"_Wizard_," Anakin breathed, as he tried the juice.

"Well, then," Iben Derriva said, seated once more at his desk, his fingers steepled before him. "Now that we're more or less finished with the obligatory pleasantries, I suppose we could continue to fence, Jedi Kenobi, but you must excuse me if I comment that it's been a rather wearying day, and I'd prefer we get straight down to business."

"Of course," Obi-Wan said, politely.

"First, I'm going to presume that since you're investigating a 'matter of state security', that this matter pertains to the recent assassination attempt on our Queen."

Obi-Wan inclined his head, acknowledging the point.

"Second," said Iben Derriva, "Since you have come _here_, of all places, I shall presume that you are investigating the possibility that the Five are somehow involved in the assassination attempt."

"Are you, then?" Obi-Wan asked, bluntly.

Iben gave a thin smile. "Hardly," he said. "Do you know how long this—" he gestured to the office surrounding them. "—has endured?"

"No."

"Five centuries," Iben said. "It's been five centuries, give or take a couple of decades, since the Derriva family have bound themselves to the legislature and the judiciary. To us, the law is paramount: making it, interpreting it—it is the source of our power. We therefore respect it. Assassinating the Queen might've given us a way to remove a Monarch bent on hamstringing the power of the Five, but only at the cost of breaking what the Derriva stand for. The law."

"So you're telling me you're an idealist."

"Hardly," Iben replied. He sipped from his tea. "If I'm an idealist, Jedi Kenobi, it's a rather hardened sort of idealist. Years of working with the judiciary breeds cynicism like you'd never believe. I simply believe that as bad as things are right now, they'll get far worse if we're allowed to break the law so flagrantly in pursuit of our own goals. There's far more power and rewards to _shaping_ law and interpreting the vagaries of a particular subsection or article than there is to killing a Queen. And the truth?" he shrugged elegantly. "It'll pass in time. She's young and still thinks she can change the world. Give her several more years of uphill struggle and things'll be different. Not to mention that the term limit means that she'll be gone—but the Derriva will remain. And expand."

"I know the feeling," Obi-Wan said, dryly. "Sending the man who killed the King of Lithun to kill the Queen of Naboo hardly counts as a 'flagrant' violation by any definition, however. Such a man would ideally be discreet and deadly, and therefore a covert violation."

Iben's mouth twitched in a grudging smile. "Very well, then," he said. "_Covert_ violations of the law are also bad. Will that suffice?"

"Does that mean you never break the law?" This was Anakin, peering curiously at Iben, drink-bulb in hand.

Iben considered it. Gravely, he said, "We all have our lapses. But the Derriva would not break the law in such a way."

"Would I be correct in saying that you have no love for those who have in fact sent an assassin after the Queen?" Obi-Wan asked. This was crucial, he thought, even though he knew what the answer would be.

Iben nodded. "Of course," he said, crisply.

"Who, then," pressed Obi-Wan, "Do you suspect could be behind such a deed?"

"It's not my place to say," Iben said, curtly. "If I had evidence, I'd have gone straight to palace security with it." He looked at Obi-Wan. "I have _nothing_ but raw suspicion, do you understand?"

"I do," Obi-Wan said. "That's exactly what I'm asking for."

Iben Derriva drew in a deep breath. "The Perdaé," he said, shortly.

"Who are they?"

"Republicans," said Iben Derriva, with the barest hint of distaste, before it was swiftly concealed. "Dissidents. All middle-class, you understand."

Obi-Wan did. He understood very much.

"And you believe the Perdaé would have the funds necessary to hire such an assassin?"

Iben Derriva shook his head. "Of course not," he said. "The Perdaé is the name adopted by that particular faction of the middle class, and it's a growing political entity, though it's yet to gain much traction within the legislature. But why do you think the Trade Federation attacked Naboo? And why do you think it _held_ Naboo?"

"I'd very much like to hear your thoughts on the matter," Obi-Wan said.

"Collaborators," Iben Derriva said, disgustedly. He set his cup back down on the desk. "The Perdaé invited the Trade Federation in. They helped them hold the planet and disarm the citizen militia. A significant number of the Perdaé serve in the militia and most of them stood down and backed up the droid army. We're not all _that_ helpless, Jedi Kenobi. But noen of us expected our own to lie down and allow us to be invaded, much less held by a foreign commercial power."

"And you had nothing to gain from the Trade Federation's occupation?"

Iben shook his head. "What do you think? The judiciary remains constant, but the Trade Federation were bad for business. They weren't running the country; they were simply waiting. What for, I don't know. Perhaps to see what the galaxy would do. In the meanwhile, the Perdaé were seizing property and wrecking businesses and generally thumbing their noses at the laws and proper ways of doing things."

"What you _expected_ to gain and what you gain are two very different things," Obi-Wan pointed out.

"True," Iben acknowledged. "But unlike the other families of the Five, the Derriva profit from a robust legal system. More commerce _would_ have allowed us to expand our dealings with commercial law, but at the end of the day, without looking at consequences or moral objections, it's all the same to us whether Queen Amidala is in power or whether the Trade Federation is in power. We had no reason to invite them in."

Obi-Wan nodded and gestured for Iben Derriva to continue.

"So," Iben said. "I don't think the Perdaé had the funds or the connections. But I think they were proxies. And I think the Trade Federation _did_."

"Hmm," Obi-Wan said, noncommittally. And then, "I must confess that I'm a little confused about the political situation on Naboo. Perhaps you would care to enlighten me?"

"Naboo, as you know," Iben Derriva explained, "Is a constitutional monarchy." He seemed, Obi-Wan noted, unsurprised, if a little delighted at the thought of having to explain the situation to the Jedi. "While the Five exert a considerable amount of power and influence, the next main player is the Monarch; currently, Queen Amidala. Most of the people of Naboo support the Monarchy. And then, there are the Perdaé and the isolationists."

"Who are the isolationists?"

"They've been derisively referred to as sheep-herders," Iben said, "Because essentially, that's what their position boils down to: minimal central government, with the legislature being forced to go to the population with a referendum for every single decision, and a ceremonial Monarch, though some of them tend to be Republicans in sympathy with the Perdaé. For obvious reasons, the isolationists aren't very well-organised—unlike the Perdaé."

"How strong are the Perdaé?"

Iben hesitated. "They're a minority," he said, at last. "But a vocal one, and with a growing amount of power and influence."

"Do they have a leader?"

"Not as such," Iben answered. He drummed his fingers against the surface of the desk for a moment, thinking. "Pallié Talein," he said, finally. "Or Androl Oden. Androl's the one who makes all the fiery speeches in the legislature about how their time has come and how they're going to change things. Pallié, though; she's the one to worry about."

"Why?" Obi-Wan queried.

Iben gave him a thin smile. "Because," he said, "She writes the manifestos."

* * *

"What do you think?" Obi-Wan asked, as they walked out of 'Derriva &amp; Partners.' Anakin was silent for a while, staring at the passers-by as they strode towards their next destination: the university in Theed.

"I dunno," he said, at last. "He played a lot with words, I guess."

"He _is_ a lawyer," Obi-Wan pointed out. "It is his task to be careful with what he says."

"I guess," Anakin muttered. "Still, he seemed…slippery. Slimy, even. Like a Hutt." He found himself thinking of his vague memories of Gardulla the Hutt, who seemed nothing more than an oversized slug. You didn't trust Hutts, the other slaves in the pens had said. They always had plans, always treated you like a piece in a game of stones, and it occurred to him that there was something of that sort to Iben's manner.

"Possibly," Obi-Wan acknowledged. "Remember to keep your impressions flexible, though." His boot slipped on a loose cobblestone and he staggered, but then righted himself in the next moment.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Obi-Wan said, "That you may be correct. Iben Derriva may be slimy, and he's most likely holding something back. But you might also be wrong. There's nothing wrong with having an impression. But you shouldn't be clinging to it, in the face of new evidence."

"Then why don't we go back and get it out of him!" Anakin demanded, skidding to a stop and turning about to go marching back towards the apartment building. But Obi-Wan had a firm hold on his elbow.

"Anakin," he said, tiredly. "Think. How do you plan to get that information out of him?"

Anakin scowled. "I bet we might find something out if you leaned real hard on him."

"Or we might not find out anything at all," Obi-Wan countered. He let go of Anakin. "And if he's innocent, we may have alienated a valuable ally within the Five. Many beings have secrets, Anakin. I don't doubt that Iben Derriva might not be as innocent as he paints himself to be. But at this point, there seems to be little to gain from continuing to press him. Instead, by talking to the Perdaé, we gain more pieces to the puzzle. We gain a way of evaluating the Five—and Iben—through someone else's eyes."

"And if they tell us Iben is lying?"

"Then," Obi-Wan said dryly, "We pay him another visit. And I lean on him, 'real hard'."

Anakin grinned. "I like the sound of that." He sobered, in the span of a few moments, as a thought occurred to him. "There's something I don't get though."

"What is it?"

"You kept saying the assassin was going after the Queen," Anakin said, and Obi-Wan motioned for him to keep his voice down. Much softer, he continued. "So did Captain Panaka. But earlier, you told me you didn't think the assassin was going after the Queen. So why did you tell him that?"

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. "What do you think?" he challenged.

Anakin frowned. "I don't know," he muttered, his hands shoved into his tunic pockets. He wondered what it was with the Jedi and those questions. There was Gallia, who seemed to positively enjoy asking him all sorts of stupid questions, and then there was Obi-Wan. He felt just a touch of resentment: wasn't it obvious he had no idea what was going on? Why was Obi-Wan pressing him?

"I didn't ask for what you know," Obi-Wan said, mildly, as if he'd sensed the sullen direction of Anakin's thoughts. "I'm asking you for what you _think_."

"Why does it matter?" The words were out of Anakin's mouth before he could decide if it was or wasn't wise. He'd felt just a bit left out the whole time Obi-Wan was talking to Iben Derriva, and even now, he felt like…like baggage. Baggage that Obi-Wan was dragging around.

Obi-Wan sighed. "Anakin," he began. "You're going to be a Jedi. My job is to teach you. Not just to use this," he tapped the lightsaber clipped to his belt. "Or this." Anakin felt it then, a swirling, in-rushing, _gathering_ around Obi-Wan, clear like the fountain water, like a deep desert well. "The most important thing I can give you, Anakin, is the ability to use this." He tapped his own temple. "Your mind. To think. And that means I need to encourage you to think for yourself, to voice your own opinions, and to accept challenges."

He thought about it.

The spacers played sabaac a lot, in some of the cantinas in Mos Espa. He'd listened to them a lot, when he had a spare moment. There, he'd heard all sorts of stories from spacers—the one about angels on the moons of Iego, or gigantic dust-worms, nestled in the heart of asteroid fields, or the Lost Ship. But sabaac—sometimes dejarik. Anakin's mind went back to that, drawn by some sort of instinct.

And then he knew.

"You're keeping it up your sleeve, aren't you?" he said, aloud. "You're trying some kind of bluff—you want to see what they have to say, what they'll show if they think the assassin went after the Queen, rather than anyone else."

Obi-Wan nodded; he was smiling, Anakin thought, and for some reason, he felt a slight tickle of warmth, beating beneath his breast-bone. It was hard to put a word to it. "Almost essentially correct," Obi-Wan acknowledged with a nod. "Except for a few details. First, it's always good to see what the Five have to say. I suspect the assassin wasn't after the Queen at all, but Captain Panaka is working from the presumption that an attempt on the Queen is somehow involved, because that is his only way to make sense of why an assassin would attack us in the palace. I cannot quite disagree."

"Why not?" Anakin asked, frowning.

"Because I am the Queen's security," Obi-Wan pointed out, gently. "And Captain Panaka leads the royal guard. With both of us removed from the picture, any assassination attempt on the Queen could proceed."

It didn't make sense, though. Anakin said as much, and Obi-Wan once again offered him that nod. "You're right," Obi-Wan said, with a sigh. "But it offers as good a starting point as any, even if we may hold reservations about how true that might be. Which is why it's good to feel the Five out. And as you said, it's good not to play _every_ single card we have in our hand. That way, we can pay attention to those who seem to know more than they're supposed to."

He continued walking on, and Anakin trudged after him. "And lean on them 'real hard'," Obi-Wan added, dryly, after a few moments' pause.

"Wizard," Anakin said, delighted.

* * *

_A/N: So, thanks once again to those who have favved or reviewed, or otherwise, read and (hopefully) enjoyed this story! :) I know it's been a while: once again, I have to unfortunately plead RL. I've finally managed to graduate and will now have job market woes. Once again though, I repeat: I'm committed to seeing this story through. It'll just take longer than I expected... (In particular, I had an issue with my hard drive a while back and I lost pretty much everything on it. My back-up hard drives went too, in what must be a spate of absurd luck. I proceeded to buy lottery tickets (no benefit there, alas), and to carefully piece together everything I'd lost._

_So the good and the bad news: the good news is that I took really substantive handwritten notes on this story and where I plan for it to go. As such, it's just a matter of rewriting the missing chapters and then moving on. The bad news is that recovering this story is not my first priority, but I've more or less recovered my lost work stuff, and life stuff, and so I can move on to rescuring this fic. More bad news: the crash took down all my buffer, so I'm gonna have to put in some work to recover that chapter buffer before I can see to a more regular posting schedule._

_Here's hoping it won't be months again before y'all hear from me. My current commitment is to getting out the next chapter within two weeks._

_-Ammaren._


	12. Shots Fired

**In All The World**

Summary: The story of how Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tamed each other, from Naboo to Anakin's early days at the Temple. Slow-building Anakin/Obi-Wan friendship.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: Shots Fired**

The Arjuna University of Free Theed was housed in a series of lofty buildings; no taller than the other stone buildings in the vicinity, and wrought of the same yellow stone from the nearby quarries. Yet its architecture spoke of an elegance that was lacking in most of the surrounding buildings, and students sat on the stone rim of the fountain and laughed and chattered as the breeze in the open courtyards scattered the fountain spray.

The trees were thick and lush, and as Obi-Wan strode through the campus quietly, he noticed that the occupation of the Trade Federation, too, had touched the university. He noticed char marks on stone buildings—most likely blaster burns—and the occasional patch of scorched earth. He observed, as well, the way eyes turned to them and conversation faltered as he made his way towards the administrative centre of the university, Anakin in tow.

The Force was strong here; it vibrated among the trees, among the youth and students gathered. But there was something else as well: an undercurrent of warning. Without thinking, Obi-Wan tugged at Anakin, dragged him over to his left side.

"What's happening?" Anakin asked, softly. At least the boy was perceptive enough, Obi-Wan reflected. He'd picked up on Obi-Wan's unease.

"Nothing," Obi-Wan said. "But keep an eye open. Remember what I told you."

Anakin rolled his eyes. "Run off, find somewhere safe, stay there, don't move."

"That was for the palace," Obi-Wan corrected. "Where there are plenty of well-trained guards. Here, you stay close by me so I can protect you. Unless I tell you to stay somewhere else, for your own safety."

"All right," Anakin said. "But why your left?"

Obi-Wan's lips twitched in a half-smile. "Because I'm right-handed," he said, absently. "The Jedi don't like students to have a dominant hand, so in theory, we're trained to be able to handle a lightsaber 'passably well' with either hand, but I still favour my right."

Anakin craned his neck, and sure enough, Qui-Gon's lightsaber hung at Obi-Wan's left side. "Then shouldn't I be on your right?" he reasoned.

Obi-Wan shook his head. "Good thinking, but no." He mimed the most basic guard stance of Ataru, lightsaber held upright in a two-handed grip on his right side, and then shifted, angling the imaginary lightsaber diagonally downwards. "This is a basic deflection position. If you're on my right, I'd have to expose myself to protect you. When you stand here, I protect both you and myself in a single movement."

"Oh," Anakin said, enlightened. He'd never thought about that before.

"Oh indeed," Obi-Wan said. And then absently, "It's why the Padawan always stands on the opposite of the Master's dominant side."

Anakin stiffened, forced himself to relax. He couldn't help it; he thought of Watto, who'd been free enough with his fists when Anakin made a mistake. He thought of people on Tatooine who were more than happy to remind him he wasn't a person, just property. Easily replaceable. Fit to be bought and sold and traded.

Gallia's words echoed in his head. _"Anakin, you're going to learn that in a lot of places, people do things differently. And if being different is enough for you to consider them stupid, then you're going to have a lot of difficulty in life."_

Was this worth it? he wanted to ask. Maybe sometimes, different was _wrong_.

Obi-Wan had stopped walking. "Anakin? Are you all right?"

Anakin bit his lip. No, he wanted to say, but he felt stupid, having stopped without having even realised he'd done so. Except that he couldn't make himself say that he was okay; he just wasn't sure what he even wanted to say. Obi-Wan had been sort of nice to him, but he didn't seem to know a lot of things, and Anakin wasn't sure he wanted to have to find the words for them.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan said, very slowly, very cautiously, as if Anakin was some sort of rampaging bantha, "If I'm going to be your teacher, I need to know that you can approach me if you have any difficulty at all. Please talk to me."

"Don't talk to me," Anakin ground out. He hated that, most of all. Being treated as if he was fragile, made of glass. _Then how do you want to be treated?_ part of his head which sounded suspiciously like Gallia asked him. _Do you want to be their Chosen One, set aside and special? Do you want to be the ex-slave, to be handled with care and protected from all pain? What do you want to be, then?_

Obi-Wan's features smoothened out, but for a moment, just a moment, Anakin thought he saw a flash of hurt in the man's eyes. He hated that too; the way Obi-Wan just took it all without complaint and said nothing, only, "Very well. Let us continue."

He knew he shouldn't have snapped, wished that Obi-Wan would've done something—anything—to show he cared. Pressed him, made those conflicting desires make sense, or at least show that Anakin's words had affected him somehow.

Instead, Obi-Wan continued walking, without looking back over his shoulder, and finally, with the sinking feeling that he'd screwed up somehow, Anakin jogged to keep up with him.

* * *

Obi-Wan's first impression was that Pallié Talein worked at the university. Certainly, in a number of other worlds he'd visited while on missions with Qui-Gon, universities had been a major locus of political activity, but lecturers, or so he had discovered, were often just as active in politics as their students.

Anakin was a brooding presence, trudging sullenly to his left.

He'd mispoken, somewhere. That much was clear. And for all he'd thought he'd begun to form a kind of bond with Anakin, it had been made painfully clear to him that the boy didn't quite trust him. One step forwards, three steps back, thought Obi-Wan with a quiet sigh. There were many things he'd wanted to say. He didn't think it was the time to be saying them, right now.

_You never need unsay what has never been said_, was one of Adi Gallia's famous admonitions. Before she ascended to the Council, she'd served as a diplomat to numerous worlds. She'd even been instrumental in securing the Boshkhan-Adhar treaties, which effectively secured an end to the ongoing violence between the twin worlds of Boshkhan and Adhar in the Vekthan system. Many, or so Obi-Wan had read, back during his planetary diplomacy tutorials, had considered the situation to be unresolvable: years of wars and intermittent feuding had divided the two planets. While a two-planet treaty seemed to be the best way forward, most diplomats and commentators had argued there was little political will for such a settlement: a sizeable number of Adhirans insisted that Boshkhan had once been theirs and so the only settlement would be one where Boshkhan became Adhiran territory.

But Adi Gallia secured the peace treaty, somehow. Obi-Wan'd read her reports of the diplomatic negotiations and still could not begin to understand _how_. It was a master-stroke, a work that had elevated her to the rank of Jedi Master, even without having successfully trained an apprentice.

So he assented to her wisdom with a quiet sigh; one that Anakin did not seem to pick up on. It had been going so well until then, thought Obi-Wan, with resigned frustration. He let that emotion go, and tried to focus on the task at hand.

He was nearly at the doorway of the administrative building when he sensed it: the moment when the restless undercurrent within the Force transmuted to sharp, urgent _warning._

"Anakin!" Obi-Wan cried out, "Down!"

The boy responded with admirable alacrity, the sullenness dissipated and replaced by both shock and recognition of the threat. The Force was strong with Anakin indeed, Obi-Wan found himself thinking wryly, even as he whirled about, transitioning fluidly from drawing his lightsaber into a standard block.

The blaster bolt came from behind, and Obi-Wan almost staggered off-balance as the shot deflected off the blade of his lightsaber. (There was that moment of shock there, again, as the blade in his hands was a bright green, not familiar blue.)

"Obi-Wan?" Anakin asked, softly.

"Stay down," Obi-Wan ordered, twirling his lightsaber about in his hands, in preparation for the next strike. At the same time, he cast about for the shooter. Already, the students on the campus were reacting: he'd heard a few screams, while others seemed to be familiar with the situation and were diving for cover. That made his task easier, he mused. He had to stop the shooter without accidentally deflecting the blaster bolt into somebody. He raised his voice, "All of you, find somewhere safe and _stay_ there!" He scooped up Anakin and kept moving, smacking away the next blaster bolt. It was coming from up high, Obi-Wan thought, estimating trajectory and angle, and the bolt he'd deflected slammed into the walls of a neighbouring building instead.

He found a durasteel bin—probably for rubbish—and shoved Anakin behind it. "Stay here and keep quiet," he ordered Anakin, and without waiting for a response, strode out again.

There was no pattern to it: the next bolt whined out from a completely different location—somewhat to the left of the previous, Obi-Wan estimated. But the Force was with him, guiding him, and he deflected _that_ into a patch of empty grass, disintegrating it.

_Military-grade high-energy weapon_, Obi-Wan mused. Deflection was supposed to absorb a little of the force and energy of the blaster bolt.

He dashed towards the direction the first shot had come from. There was a cluster of buildings there, Obi-Wan realised: not particularly high, but a potential spotting point for a shooter. At the same time, he reached for his utility belt and removed the cable launcher from his toolpouch. With one hand, Obi-Wan batted away the next shot—to the right, this time—and with the other, he activated the cable launcher, engaging the grapnel, and firing it at the roof of the building.

"Test your rope," the Jedi instructor in charge of climbing classes had always said. Obi-Wan yanked it once, decided that was good enough, feeling the firm resistance as the grapnel held in place, and leaped upwards, reeling in the cable.

He gained the roof of the building—fingers of his free hand scrabbling on the edge for purchase—and grunted as a shot came in, still from the right. Only the Force warned him, as Obi-Wan rolled on his shoulder, somehow managing to avoid the blast, and still clinging desperately to the roofing, although he felt a flash of heat and knew he'd managed to graze himself with his ignited lightsaber.

He hauled himself up with his free hand and a little boost from the Force, landed neatly, as if it had been a training exercise in the Temple and crouched instantly, lightsaber raised in a defensive position once again. The shooter was to his right—a human in an obscuring helmet, likely male, with what Obi-Wan identified as a Phokas Mark VI sniper rifle employed by a number of planetary militaries.

Obi-Wan disengaged the grapnel and charged, lightsaber up and at the ready. As he ran towards the makeshift sniper's nest; the shooter fled, abandoning the rifle.

Obi-Wan leapt over the distance between the two buildings, trusting in his momentum and the Force to carry him. He hit the edge of the building—cursed softly—and had to haul himself over the edge, a move made awkward by the fact that he was holding on to Qui-Gon's lightsaber.

The shooter was already ahead, yet Obi-Wan didn't see how he was going to escape: the other way was a dead end, leading to the last of the class blocks. But the shooter was clearly skilled in urban navigation as he leaped, grabbed at a projecting outcrop on the next building, and used that momentum to swing on and drop down to a ledge slightly below the outcrop.

Obi-Wan whirled about to give the area a quick glance (_you must be aware of your surroundings, Padawan,_ he heard Qui-Gon's voice, a reminder, and _never assume there's only one of them._)

For this reason, he deflected the next incoming blaster bolt with ease.

_Two_, Obi-Wan thought, and knew then that he could not afford to give chase—not when there was one more armed shooter on the campus. Twisting about, he called out, "You are under arrest, in the name of the Republic!"

The only reply he received was a shouted profanity, in Basic.

Inwardly, Obi-Wan shrugged and moved.

This time, he made the jump by a good distance, clearing the edge of the building, and allowing the surge of energy to carry him forward into another great leap. This shooter, Obi-Wan realised, was not as much of a professional: there was a flurry of bolts now, but most of them were nowhere close to hitting him. Whoever it was, they were panicking.

"I don't want to hurt you," Obi-Wan shouted, as he closed in. "Whoever you are, stand down and you will be taken to the nearest security station."

It was a woman, he now saw: her hair tied back, armed with a repeating blaster rifle and surprisingly young. Possibly a student, Obi-Wan surmised, although however she'd gotten her hands on the blaster rifle was a question for a later time. "It's too late for that, Jedi!" she yelled back. "We all know what you are. The corrupt systems of power and oppression that you protect!"

"We are agents of the Republic!" Obi-Wan replied, advancing through the storm of scattered blaster fire. "Whoever you are, the Jedi do not oppress: we guard peace and we ensure justice."

The only response he received was a spray of blaster fire. Ironically enough, it was harder to deflect the closely-packed, random bolts than the clinical potshots they'd taken earlier. Obi-Wan felt a flash of heat along his saber arm as some of the bolts came far closer than he was comfortable with.

She backed away as he advanced, right up to the very lip of the building and stopped with her back to the edge.

Obi-Wan leaned out, into his sweeping cut, which burned through the rifle barrel, slicing the weapon apart. She cried out and dropped the weapon, the metal still glowing red-hot from the swift cut of Obi-Wan's lightsaber.

Obi-Wan said, "It's over now."

She stared at him, frustrated, hating, trapped. One hand reached into her jacket pocket—perhaps for a knife, perhaps for a blaster.

With a mental shrug and a silent apology, he slammed the pommel of Qui-Gon's lightsaber into her temple. As she crumpled, Obi-Wan carefully caught her and lowered her to the ground, and then sheathed the weapon.

The Force was still now, quiet. He had no doubt that the other shooter had gotten away.

Letting a quiet sigh escape his lips, Obi-Wan flipped on his comlink. "Anakin, do you copy?"

It was a few long moments before he heard the high, child's voice on the other end. "Obi-Wan?"

He'd have to talk to Anakin about Jedi decorum sometime soon, Obi-Wan reflected, setting it on the list of the many, _many_ things he absolutely needed to do. For now, he settled for a terse, "Are you hurt?"

A pause. "Nope," Anakin finally said. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"Yes, I am," Obi-Wan said, firmly. "But I need you to do something for me. I need you to contact campus or planetary security—actually, someone should've called them, so I expect you'll see them any moment now. Let them know that one of the shooters got away, but the other's in custody. I'm on the roof of the—" he looked around and winced. There was no easy way to tell which of the campus buildings they were on; not from the roof itself. "I'm on the roof of one of the buildings. Can you do that for me?"

"Yeah, okay," Anakin said. "Do I get to come up?"

Obi-Wan said, "No. Not yet. Not until the area is secure."

"This is boring," Anakin muttered, petulantly. Obi-Wan ignored him, and said, "Stay where you are, Anakin. I'll come down and get you once everything's clear."

"All right," Anakin grumbled, and Obi-Wan flicked off the comlink. He bent down and briskly searched the unconscious woman. It turned out that the object was in fact, a pocket-knife, so Obi-Wan took it, and then bound her hands with fibrecord. It wasn't ideal, but a Jedi improvised. He felt the instinctive flash of pain; those thoughts had made themselves known with Qui-Gon's voice, laced with the older Jedi's good humour.

The woman wasn't carrying a comlink, but she did have a datapad. It was, however, password-protected, and Obi-Wan confiscated it as well, making a mental note to see Plo Koon about cracking the datapad.

Hands were not significantly callused, Obi-Wan noticed, as he settled in to wait for security officers to arrive. If anything, the fact she'd panicked as he closed in showed, among other things, that she wasn't a professional. The other shooter, though. That had been a military-grade sniper rifle and Obi-Wan badly wanted to know how the shooter'd gotten their hands on it. The one he'd taken apart was similarly noteworthy. He prodded it with his boot, trying to nudge the pieces together to get a better look at it. A Baktoid series E-5, Obi-Wan confirmed, used commonly by the B1battle droids recently deployed by the Trade Federation. Likely some looters'd scavenged and sold those weapons after the defeat and subsequent disarmament of the Trade Federation's droid army—perhaps some'd even been stolen during their short-lived occupation of Naboo. Still, though, the E-5 had been modified: Obi-Wan recalled that the originals had issues with heating after sustained blasts, due to the fact that they were short barreled. What the extra module did, Obi-Wan wasn't entirely certain.

He was certain about one thing, at least.

Whatever it was, the latest attack had been directed at them, specifically; no doubt in response to Obi-Wan's recent inquiries. Which meant, Obi-Wan knew, that there was likely more to what Arvol Resnik had been doing in the palace than was immediately apparent. Hed suspected that, before. But now, it was more than a suspicion: it was a certainty.

He drew a long, slow breath. He knew what Qui-Gon's response would have been, had his Master been here. Really, Obi-Wan thought, if someone wanted to _discourage_ further investigation, then the only possible response was to keep digging, and see what came out of it.

* * *

Anakin trudged up onto the roof behind the security officers, as they grumbled about how the Jedi couldn't possibly be more specific about where he was. Well sure, Anakin thought indignantly, ignore how he'd pointed them towards the _right_ cluster of buildings; he was still a kid, and apparently his contribution counted for nothing.

Obi-Wan'd told him to stay put, but Anakin'd enough of crouching behind a durasteel bin and _waiting_ and waiting, and besides, the bin stank and he thought the fruit flies'd figured Tatooine kid was a great a meal as some of…well, whatever rotting food'd crawled in and died there.

Besides, Anakin thought smugly, it was hard to argue with the logic that with lots of security officers _and_ Obi-Wan, the roof was probably the safest place on the campus at the moment.

By the time security'd run up the full flight of stairs and climbed out onto the roof, it was apparent they were on the wrong roof; Anakin could make out the watchful figure a few buildings over. "Kriffing Jedi," the security officer in the lead muttered, and then belatedly glanced over at Anakin, as if remembering he was tagging along. "It's the wrong fragging building."

As they turned about to head down the stairs, something caught Anakin's eye. He bent down, curious, and touched a patch of reddish-orange dirt in the shape of a bootprint—

"Hey, kid, what're you doing?"

The officer bringing up the rear of the group frowned, and instinctively, Anakin drew himself up, rubbing at his fingers—strange, it felt like powdery sand—but then the older woman glanced down at the ground and whistled sharply. "Barana," she called out. "The Jedi's kid found something here. I'll check it out."

"Alright," the lead officer called back. "Meet at the Jedi's location."

"What is that?" Anakin wanted to know. "It looks like dirt."

"But that's why it's interesting," the woman said, absently, drawing out a datapad with a logo Anakin couldn't get a good look at and snapping a few photos of the print. "Next time, don't disturb it."

"Why not?"

"It's evidence," the officer said. "See? You've smudged the bottom bit of the print. If we had a clear shot of this, we could try to match it to the shooter."

"Wouldn't he have gotten rid of his boots by now?"

The woman laughed. "Most of 'em aren't that canny," she said, simply. "You'd be surprised about the different ways we catch people. Last time, this guy who robbed a hovercab went to the security station to report his datapad missing—he'd left it in the hovercab. Made my job easy that day, for sure."

"Oh," Anakin said, surprised. He frowned down at the print. "So you're going to go around trying to find someone with the same boots?"

"Better than that," the officer said, straightening up. "Our shooter likely tracked that dirt in—it's reddish-orange, which doesn't match with anything you'll see around Theed. Off the top of my head, I can't think of where this might've come from, except maybe a quarry, but the database'll know, for sure."

"Huh," Anakin said, enlightened. He hadn't even known that; dirt was dirt, he'd figured, just like sand was sand, and it hadn't occurred to him that this didn't match the brown dirt he'd seen in flowerbeds around the palace and Theed until the woman'd pointed it out.

"Anyway," she said. "I'll bet these're all over the roof, which means our shooter tracked that dirt in. Want to see if I'm right?"

"Okay," Anakin agreed. He felt a trickle of excitement. Okay, so maybe Obi-Wan would throw a fit if Anakin'd wandered off, but at least he was doing something _helpful_. Surely Obi-Wan'd want to know about the _prints_ and the special dirt, and all. Maybe it'd help Obi-Wan figure out what was going on.

Besides, he thought, stubbornly, he was with security—even if it was just that woman looking at all the bootprints. Surely that still counted as 'safe.' Even Obi-Wan, Anakin figured, couldn't argue with that.

* * *

Except that Obi-Wan could and did argue.

"Anakin," said Obi-Wan, frowning down at him, after he'd apparently given custody of the second shooter over to security and just leapt the gap between buildings to locate Anakin. "I specifically told you to _stay put_."

Anakin said, "I was safe—"

"You didn't _know_ that," Obi-Wan said, sternly. "You didn't know that the shooter wasn't lurking around somewhere in the area. You didn't know that there wasn't a third accomplice, or—Force forbid—a planted bomb."

Obstinately, Anakin repeated, "I was safe."

"No," Obi-Wan said, gently but firmly, and Anakin _hated_ that tone, as if Anakin'd done something so terribly wrong, "You might have been. But you might not have been. You had absolutely no way of knowing that, which was my point. You went against my orders for dubious reasons at best, and the wrong ones at worst." He ran a hand through his hair, looking extremely tired. "Anakin, I allowed you to remain with me because I was under the impression that you would _listen_ to me when I told you to do things for your safety. It turns out I was mistaken."

Anakin wasn't sure which was worse: the embarrassment, or the rage, or the way Obi-Wan was looking at him, with disappointment sharp like the edge of a utility knife. Or maybe it was the way that Obi-Wan wasn't listening to him, because surely being with security meant he was safer than anywhere else. He said as much.

Obi-Wan shook his head. "Being with security doesn't make you safe," he said. "If you were at a security station, perhaps. But following the first responders at a site of an attack isn't safe, Anakin. There have been occasions on which first responders too, whether security or medics, have been attacked."

"But you kept me safe when they tried shooting at us," Anakin protested. "How's being with security any less safe?" and Obi-Wan held up a hand.

"Enough," he said. "We'll talk about this later, I assure you."

"Are you sending me away, then?" Anakin wanted to know. It was the question that weighed down on him, even as he didn't understand Obi-Wan's reason. It was infuriating, but the thought of being shipped off, back to the Temple, completely alone, tail between his legs, was thoroughly intolerable.

Obi-Wan pressed his lips together and did not reply immediately. Eventually he said, "I'm tempted to, mind you, but I'll think about it. Not just because you've shown that you have terrible risk-assessment, or that you aren't opposed to treating orders flippantly, but because this assignment's turning out a little more hot than I'd expected. Now," and his demeanour changed, turning business-like. "What's this about prints?"

Anakin showed him, feeling the resentment burn deep down inside. He shoved it, stamping down on it until it was smouldering embers rather than a small, banked fire. "The officer said he'd left prints," Anakin muttered. "And she said the dirt's special—different from the dirt in Theed."

Obi-Wan hunkered down, inspecting the prints. "She's right," he said. "And the bootprint's different enough as well."

Anakin moved over next to him. "What d'you mean?"

"See this?" Obi-Wan indicated the way the print was divided into blocky, segmented chunks. "City boots have regular soles. You only need this kind of chunky, segmented sole if you do a lot of hiking. Good for trapping sand, too."

"That's the dirt?"

Obi-Wan nodded. He rubbed at it with his fingers, too.

"The officer said you're not supposed to touch that," Anakin informed him. "She said we need to leave evidence untouched."

Obi-Wan's lips twisted in a faint smile. "Yes, we do," he agreed, "But she's already sending me the captured photos. And if security hasn't already done so, then we need to get a sample of the dirt for analysis. Then we can track down the shooter's location."

"Oh," Anakin said. And then, "Good." At least Obi-Wan was still saying 'we', for now. "What're we gonna do, then?"

Obi-Wan considered. Gravely, he said, "When the shooter regains consciousness, I would like to speak with her. And I'd like to get some analysis done on the dirt, and a datapad. And then we should still speak with Pallié Talein."

"A datapad?" Anakin asked.

Obi-Wan produced the datapad. "It's password-locked," he said. "I'll need to get it to Master Koon, have him take a look at this."

Anakin said, "I can crack it."

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. "You sure?" he asked, and Anakin bristled inside.

"'Course I can," he said, just a trifle offended. "I take apart—I mean, I used to take apart droids for a living. Disabling all that security 'ware on a speeder's CPU is hard. Cracking a datapad's easy as opening a cookie jar."

"All right," Obi-Wan said, "Catch."

Anakin snatched the datapad from the air. It was a newer model, he noticed, probably one of those by Muja Inc. They never really got the latest in hardware and electronics on Tatooine, and from what Anakin'd heard, Muja Inc. was supposed to be top-notch; it produced the latest, most trendy models, rolling them out sector-by-sector from the Core Worlds to (eventually) dustballs like Tatooine. But he'd gotten a chance to toy with an old Muja datapad once, and he figured they couldn't have changed very much. Not like a Sienar 2000 Hawkbat—that speeder'd been a tough one.

He switched it on and instantly, the Muja logo flashed, followed by the password entry screen.

"Do you need some quiet or can you do it on the go?" Obi-Wan wanted to know.

"'M fine with anything," Anakin muttered. And then a thought occurred to him. "Hey, Obi-Wan?"

"Yes?"

"If I crack this, does this mean you're not sending me back?"

"As I said, Anakin," came the implacable reply, "We will discuss this _later_."

So much for that, Anakin thought, grumpily, as he worked on the datapad. How was he supposed to know that Obi-Wan would get himself into such a snit over following security up to go find him?

* * *

Obi-Wan strode down the stairs, Anakin in tow. He'd seen to his burns, using the contents of his med-pouch—nothing a little bacta and disinfectant couldn't handle—but the issue of how to handle Anakin weighed heavily on him.

There had been Anakin's earlier outburst, for one. And then there was Anakin's insistence that he'd done nothing wrong disobeying orders. It was true, Obi-Wan would acknowledge, that nothing bad had come out of this. It was also true that the last thing he wanted to do was to stifle Anakin's independent streak. But the foundation of Jedi training was discipline, and if he couldn't instil that into his apprentice, then he would be doing badly by Anakin.

And then there was Anakin's questionable judgement. And the rudiments of Jedi protocol.

Obi-Wan sighed and set the issue aside for the moment. There was nothing he could do about it; perhaps he'd have a talk with Adi Gallia or Even Piell. He wondered if that was how it had been for Qui-Gon when he was training his first apprentice.

Except that Qui-Gon's first apprentice had been Xanatos, and Xanatos had eventually turned to the Dark Side. _That_ was a thought that Obi-Wan didn't want to entertain, and he banished it with some effort.

"I got it!" Anakin crowed, holding up the datapad. He punched in a few keys and the password screen dissolved, leaving only a few words on the display.

WELCOME, TALA ALTARIE.

"Excellent work, Anakin," Obi-Wan said, pleasantly surprised. "Anything in there?"

Anakin shrugged and handed over the datapad. "Told you it was easy," he smirked, and Obi-Wan could see that the boy was basking in the praise. "Muja's good, but nothing next to speeders."

"I'll remember that," Obi-Wan murmured as he accessed the most recent messages and calls. Discarding what seemed to be overly-personal messages, a quick scan brought up a number of messages and comms to a person by the name of Nola Jabrazie, as well as a few messages to Pallié Talein concerning meeting times. He noted all of that down.

"Well?" Anakin demanded.

Obi-Wan showed him the latest message from Pallié Talein, confirming the timing of a specific meeting. It wasn't as recent, Obi-Wan noticed, but all things considered, it was interesting, since they had already identified Talein as a person they needed to talk to.

Anakin frowned. "I don't get it," he said. "So they're meeting up. So what?"

Obi-Wan shrugged and switched off the datapad and pocketed it. "So nothing," he said. "Maybe it means something. Maybe it doesn't. But people don't suddenly get up and decide to go and shoot other people for no reason, and there's much we don't know about Tala Altarie. Where did she get the modified E-5? What was her motivation? Where does she fit in all of this? Figuring out who she's been in contact with might give us a better picture of what's been going on."

Anakin nodded slowly, clearly trying to keep track of all the questions. "Right," he said. "So we talk to her? Or we talk to—to…"

"Pallié Talein," Obi-Wan supplied. He thought for a moment. "I think we'll talk to Talein first. Altarie's going nowhere, after all."

"Okay," Anakin shrugged. "Let's go then."

* * *

_A/N: Once again, thanks to everyone for their kind support of this story, whether it be through (much-appreciated) comments, Story Alerts, and so on :) This took a bit longer than I expected, but I hope it's worth the wait, and that it wasn't too long since the last update. I'm still working on rebuilding that chapter buffer, but RL's calmed down a bit, so I've got that going for me._

_Some notes on this current installment: all's not forgiven/cheery on the Obi-Wan&amp;Anakin front. Young Anakin, as I see him, isn't really going to hold a grudge for long (it's exhausting)-or at least, he's got other things on his mind instead of holding this (for now). But the issue's been more or less buried rather than resolved, and both Obi-Wan and Anakin are still going to have to do long-term work to ensure a robust relationship of trust is established. It doesn't help that right now, Obi-Wan's in that ambiguous zone between guardian and friend-when he's very much going to have to step up to being an authority figure in Anakin's (early, relatively anyway) life. Whether he can get there is another question altogether._

_-Ammaren_


	13. Mining Concerns

**In All The World**

Summary: The story of how Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tamed each other, from Naboo to Anakin's early days at the Temple. Slow-building Anakin/Obi-Wan friendship.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: Mining Concerns**

By the time Obi-Wan and Anakin had located Pallié Talein's office, things had begun to quieten down on the campus. Security officers still searched the area, trying to ascertain if the second shooter was still around, but as Obi-Wan had said dryly, unless they went around checking footwear, he didn't expect them to have much success. After all, for one, Obi-Wan fully expected the shooter to have gotten rid of that helmet—it would've stood out in the crowd.

For another…

He thought of the weapon the man had used, the fluid way he'd navigated the space between the buildings. As far as Obi-Wan was concerned, they were up against a professional, and Obi-Wan didn't doubt that such an individual would have effectively disappeared by now.

They crossed the courtyard and went left, heading past the trees thick with flowers towards the political science department. It was in a building of its own, Obi-Wan noticed, and it had not escaped the damage of the occupation. In fact, half the roof appeared to be caved in; that surprised him. He hadn't thought the Trade Federation would've resorted to bombardment. But perhaps it was a stray shot from one of the many aerial dogfights that had taken place only a short time before, in Naboo skies.

HoloNet reception was still patchy at this part of the university, but it was easy enough to access the electronic staff register at the department entrance to determine where Talein's office was. A quick comm-call established that Talein was, in fact, in her office and had time to meet them.

"Was she really going to say no?" Anakin wanted to know, as they walked quietly down the corridor towards Talein's office; at the end of the second level.

Obi-Wan shrugged. "I'll tell you about the Szithian Senator sometime," he said, wryly. "Esk'ize'ssa had the _most_ creative ways of refusing to cooperate with a Jedi investigation…"

He trailed off as the next nameplate read, DR PALLIÉ TALEIN. He palmed the door-chime and waited.

"What—" Anakin began, but in the next moment, the door to Talein's office slid open.

"Welcome, Jedi Kenobi," Talein said, standing up to exchange a brief handshake with Obi-Wan. She proferred her hand to Anakin. "And this is?"

"This is my student," Obi-Wan said, "Anakin Skywalker." Almost mischievously, he added, "You might also know him as the Hero of Naboo."

Anakin shuffled restlessly, but Obi-Wan could tell that he was pleased by the mention, all the same. "Quite right," Talein said, with a faint smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Hello there, Anakin."

"Hi," Anakin said, and then she motioned them to the empty seats on the other side of the desk.

"I'm sorry I haven't been on top of cleaning up, lately," Talein said. She gestured to the piles of flimsiplast printouts, durasheets, and holo-readers stacked all over her desk, with a few empty drink-bulbs and a ceramic mug with the university logo, still stained with stimcaf. "As you might not be aware, it's the time they're processing tenure applications, so I'm rather distracted at the moment…"

Obi-Wan acknowledged the hint with a graceful nod. "Then I shall wish you all the best," he said, "And attempt to resolve my enquiries as swiftly as possible. Are you aware of the attempt on the Queen's life?"

Talein snorted. "Who isn't?" she wanted to know. "For all the palace put an embargo on news, it was all over the HoloNet like the latest Phozarcian pop hit on RaveMusic."

"Then you must know why any investigation would be interested in talking to you," Obi-Wan continued, calmly. "There have been suggestions that such a deed might've been committed by members of the Perdaé sympathetic to the Trade Federation."

Talein laughed. "You have got to be kidding me," she said, flatly. Obi-Wan kept his expression politely neutral and waited; one lesson he'd learned from Qui-Gon was that beings often tended to reveal more than they'd expected to when confronted with silence. Talein proved to be no exception to this principle. "Who said that? One of the Five, I suppose. They're rather protective of their own power-base."

"Even so," Obi-Wan replied. "Are you certain there is nothing to such claims?"

Talein looked him in the eye. "Yes," she said, without hesitation. "The Perdaé don't exist, Jedi Kenobi, and I certainly don't lead them, whatever you might have heard. I write manifestos, pamphlets. The people consume these, and they decide if my ideas have merit. The Perdaé are not a movement or an organised bloc, planning to take down the political system, with a concrete hierarchy. The Perdaé are everywhere _and_ nowhere. Anyone with a HoloNet account can post and claim to be the Perdaé, or to do things in the name of the Perdaé. It's _that_ easy, Jedi Kenobi."

Obi-Wan cleared his throat. "So I see," he said. "But this means you cannot deny that there may be those who see themselves as members of the Perdaé who are sympathetic to the Trade Federation—perhaps seeing the Federation as a means of bringing about much-needed change?"

Talein drew in a long, deep breath. "No," she said, at last. "I cannot."

"What about the meeting?" Anakin piped up.

Obi-Wan looked at Talein. He waited.

"What meeting?" Talein demanded.

"We apprehended a shooter on the campus earlier," Obi-Wan cut in, smoothly. "My apprentice was referring to the shooter—a Ms. Tala Altarie, who mentioned a meeting with you." He added, almost as an afterthought: "Ms. Altarie was rather displeased with the current state of political affairs. It's regrettable that she chose to express it through violence."

The blood drained from Talein's face. It was hard to fake such shock, Obi-Wan thought, although he did note that it was interesting Talein seemed to know nothing of it.

"The _fools_," Talein hissed. She buried her head in her hands. "I told them not to do it. I _told them,_" she snarled.

"You told them _what_, Dr. Talein?" Obi-Wan seized on that last admission, injecting a sliver of cold durasteel into his voice. "What is going on?"

She didn't look up. "The Youngbloods," she said, shoulders dropping. "They're a group—a splinter group. I told you, I write manifestos and pamphlets. They liked it. They liked it a great deal." Finally, she looked up at Obi-Wan. "They invited me to a few meetings as a guest speaker. They weren't interested in listening."

"Who _are_ the Youngbloods?" Anakin asked, curious.

She looked over at him. "Revolutionaries," she said, still with that tired, dead voice. "Young revolutionaries. The system is broken, Jedi Kenobi. You must see that. Have you heard about the miner's revolt from last year?"

Casting quickly through his memory, Obi-Wan shook his head. "Why don't you enlighten us," he offered.

"Rori is our second moon," Talein explained. "It's an even bigger swamp than Naboo is, if you'd believe it." She paused, almost as if expecting a laugh. There was no response and Talein continued. "They mine kassoti there."

"A kind of spice," Obi-Wan said, as he saw Anakin open his mouth.

Anakin said, "Oh."

"Kassoti is unique in that it needs to be refined in a plasma bath," Obi-Wan said, to Anakin. "Which explains why it's being carried out on the moon—on Rori—and then transported down to the surface of Naboo. On top of the Velarra-controlled opal and malachite mines, Naboo has a small plasma mining industry—"

"Of which the Velarra own a significant percentage of shares," muttered Talein.

Obi-Wan inclined his head in acknowledgement. "That they do. And so it is convenient to refine the extracted kassoti on Naboo itself. Besides, small amounts of kassoti are used in stimulants, as an ingredient in common pain-blockers, and even in bacta."

"Wizard," Anakin breathed.

"Yes, quite."

Talein cleared her throat and took over the thread of the conversation. "In any case, things only began to deteriorate after they discovered deposits of cortorsis on Rori."

"We'd believed the discovery of cortorsis to be a strong influencing factor behind the Trade Federation blockade," Obi-Wan agreed.

"Likely," Talein agreed. "Resisting Senate authority only counts for so much." She shook her head. "There's little else Naboo has to offer them, apart from the fact that we're neither militarily nor politically powerful enough to be a dangerous target."

"What's coro-corto—" Anakin stumbled on the unfamiliar word.

"Cortorsis?" Obi-Wan said. "It's an extremely rare and dangerous metal in unrefined form, and very difficult to mine. That's actually why it's so very very useful when refined—because it resists energy. You can use it to strengthen the hulls of starships, to produce shields, body-armour…But precisely because it resists energy, it's so very difficult to mine. You can't use anything but the most basic of tools—plasma torches, energy tools, they're all useless when extracting cortorsis. And without proper air filtration systems, cortosis particles are fatal to miners. And mining inevitably throws up the particles in the air."

"Okay," Anakin said. "But then why isn't it good? Shouldn't they be happy there's cortorsis on their moon?"

Obi-Wan glanced over at Talein. She said, addressing Anakin, "It's complicated. As a member of the Republic, Naboo is part of a free economic zone: it can't put up trade barriers and it must comply with galactic industrial and trade regulations. The existing mines are mineral mines—on the surface, primarily in the northlands, and plasma mines, deep in the waters, but largely inaccessible because the waters are dominated by the Gungan cities."

"All right," Anakin said. "What does this have to do with the corto—cortorsis?"

"Regulation 1751782," Talein said.

"It's a measure introduced by the Senator of Apatros last year," Obi-Wan interjected, recognising it from a negotiation mission he'd undertaken with Qui-Gon. "Regulation 1751782 was created by the senatorial commission meant to investigate galactic mining practices—and passed by a fifty vote margin in the Senate itself, meaning that Naboo has to comply."

Talein nodded. "Exactly," she said, exchanging a grim look with Obi-Wan. "One of the stipulations in Regulation 1751782 is that all mining equipment has to meet the standards issued by the commission. In practice, Naboo doesn't have the funding nor the infrastructure to fulfil these standards: we trade with the Chommell sector, rather than with the galactic economy. The result is that Naboo can't develop the cortorsis mines on Rori without violating galactic regulations, and the vultures are already circling: the Outer Rim Mining Concern has already been muscling in, trying to buy out the contracts for the cortorsis mines. But since the cortorsis mines lie in the same area as the spice mines, they want the kassoti miners out."

Anakin was frowning. "I don't get it," he said, after a while. "Why can't the Queen just tell them no?"

"Because Naboo must comply with galactic regulations," Obi-Wan explained. "This means that if a company with an impeccable credit rating like the Outer Rim Mining Concern applies for a license and is compliant with galactic mining law, Naboo does not have grounds to deny them a mining contract. If Naboo were to do so, it could be accused of unfair business practices, since the kassoti industry doesn't meet the Senate's requirements to be considered a protected industry." He glanced at the disbelief that was plain on Anakin's features and went on. "Oh, a clever ruler could find a loophole, no doubt. But then, the Outer Rim Mining Concern would have the grounds to take the entire affair to the courts. Cortorsis is extremely, extremely valuable, and since they absorbed Offworld, they've become a significant power, with many friends in the Senate."

"That doesn't seem fair," Anakin replied, slowly.

"You think?" Talein asked, sardonically. "And that's just the surface. The kassoti contracts are up for renewal next year. And while the dispute is ongoing, the miners can't expand their operations—in fact, they got slapped with a moratorium at one point. Which is why they revolted."

"What's that?"

"An order to cease mining," Obi-Wan said, absently. "So I take it the Senate isn't the most popular organisation on Naboo right now."

Talein shook her head. "Far from it," she said. "They're rather disliked, for good reason. The kassoti issue is just a symptom of the deeper problem: the Senate doesn't care about the small outlying planets in the Republic. Regulations are made by well-connected, wealthy planets like Apatros and Naboo has very little say in it."

"And the Youngbloods tap into this sentiment," Obi-Wan surmised. "What _do_ they want, Dr. Talein?"

Talein shrugged. "Control. For Naboo to make its own policies. I don't know, and I don't think they do. A number of them are in the militia. Likely Altarie as well." She shook her head. "She was a good student. Wrote an incisive paper on how the Republic had failed Naboo—it was rather prescient, considering that we would later find ourselves blockaded and occupied by the Trade Federation. We didn't speak much. I didn't think anything of her interest in the Youngbloods."

"Why not?" Anakin piped up.

"It's good for them," Talein said. "Activism teaches them to care about their world, to want to make a difference. I'd sensed some darker rhetoric being circulated among the Youngbloods, but I didn't expect something like this to come out of it…" She trailed off, and there was a long silence.

"You've been rather helpful," Obi-Wan said. "Is there anything else you might be able to contribute to the ongoing investigation…?"

Talein shook her head. "That's it. I can't think of anything. I'll comm you or drop you a message on the HoloNet if I do."

Obi-Wan rose. He said, "Thank you for your time."

* * *

Anakin said, "I'm completely lost."

"I wouldn't have expected you to follow most of it, Anakin," Obi-Wan said. He was striding on, down the corridors, headed towards the security office on the campus. "You're rather intelligent, but you haven't had much exposure to the workings of the Senate, much less business regulations in the Republic."

And there it was again: the resentment. As if Obi-Wan was implying he wasn't good enough, wasn't quite cultured or learned enough… Obi-Wan, who moved in those circles like a worm through sand.

He swallowed that, kept moving.

The silence between them stretched, grew heavier. Talking to Obi-Wan had been easier, earlier. Now, Obi-Wan seemed to draw the silence around himself like a thick warm Bantha-wool cloak, refusing to say more.

Finally, Anakin had enough of it. "Do you believe her?" he demanded.

Calmly, Obi-Wan said, "To some extent."

"Why?"

"I think she's underplaying who the Perdaé are," Obi-Wan said, simply. "It's clear the term 'Perdaé' has some traction on Naboo. Perhaps they're not a formal movement or political party, but Androl Oden clearly thinks he's speaking to some group of people, and that he's speaking _for_ them, no matter how amorphous and ill-defined that group really is. Still, it's worthwhile remembering that Iben Derriva clearly has a bone to pick with the Perdaé. Ideas of overthrowing the system likely don't sit well with him."

"Could she be pretending she isn't with them?" Anakin wanted to know. He thought about how sometimes on Tatooine, people pretended to be with Jabba the Hutt, because they thought it gave them some kind of power and influence. And sometimes it did; people didn't want to anger one of the Hutt's enforcers. He'd never done it himself; everyone knew he was Watto's slave boy. Maybe Talein was doing the opposite of that.

Obi-Wan nodded approvingly. "A good thought, and I agree that Talein is distancing herself from the Perdaé, but ask yourself this: what does Talein gain from such a move?"

Anakin frowned in thought. "Well," he said, puzzling it out aloud. "I guess if she thinks we're interested in the Perdaé, then maybe she's better off _not_ associating herself with the Perdaé?"

"But what does she gain from that?" Obi-Wan prodded. "If she's actually closely-connected to the Perdaé, then talking to someone like Androl Oden would immediately implicate her in a lie."

"So she isn't with them," Anakin declared. He glanced triumphantly at Obi-Wan. "She's being honest."

"To some extent," Obi-Wan repeated. "But well-reasoned."

"I don't get it," Anakin said, slightly buoyed by the praise, but also slightly crestfallen. What was it he was missing?

Obi-Wan slowed his pace and held up several fingers. "One," he folded the first finger back. "She's clearly very familiar with the Youngbloods and their workings. She did not deny this. The Youngbloods, in turn, appear to be familiar with her writings, and possibly by extension, the Perdaé. Two," he folded the next finger, "Distancing herself from the Perdaé and the Youngbloods might be wise _if_ she knows that they are in fact deeply implicated in some wrongdoing. Depending on how terrible that deed is, the risks of being caught in a lie might appear to outweigh the risks of being caught with them in such a deed. Three," he folded the last finger, so he was left with a fist. "She offered to comm us or drop us a HoloNet message if she thought of anything more." He waited, expectantly.

It struck Anakin, then, and he wondered how he hadn't seen it earlier. "She never asked for your comm details!"

"Exactly," Obi-Wan said, approvingly. "Jedi comm details are not publicly available. Neither are HoloNet accounts. So how could she contact me? It was merely an offer meant to appear helpful, I think. She had no intention of further conversation."

"So, what does that mean, though?" Anakin asked. "Okay, she's not being straight with us. But do we go back and talk to her? Or is this one of those things we wait on again?"

"I think," Obi-Wan said, "She's hiding something. She knows more than she's letting on, or willing to share with us. This does not, of course, entail involvement in whatever scheme this is." He let out a quiet sigh. "But there's no need to be hasty: right now, turning back and pressing her on it would not be likely to yield any more fruit than our previous conversation with her." He ran a hand along his bare chin, considering. "No, I think we are better off talking to Tala Altarie, who might give us another way of viewing Dr. Talein's story."

* * *

The lights of the office-turned-makeshift-interrogation-room were incandescent white, dialed up to the most uncomfortable settings. A planetary security officer sat beside Obi-Wan: he'd learned she was the officer who'd accompanied Anakin on the rooftops.

Across from them, now awake and free of restraining cuffs, was the sullen figure of Tala Altarie, blinking painfully in the lighting.

"This interview is being recorded," Officer Talpho said, loud enough for it to register both on the holocams and the audio recorder. Her gaze was bored; she twirled the stylus about her fingers, idly, glancing back from the set of holographic files in the data reader before her, to the recalcitrant student who sat before them. "You have been arrested in connection with a shooting on the campus of the Arjuna University of Free Theed, as well as with an ongoing Jedi investigation."

"What of my right to silence?" Tala Altarie spat out, at long last. "Not going to tell me about that? I want to speak to a lawyer."

Obi-Wan said, "This is a Jedi investigation. As such, your cooperation is requested—"

"And if I refuse?"

Obi-Wan shrugged. "Then I leave Officer Talpho to deal with you. You should know this: being a Jedi doesn't entail exemption from planetary laws."

"Really," Tala said, thoughtfully. "So explain to me how Jedi are permitted to carry deadly weapons on planets such as Hushan, where all energy-plasma weapons are banned."

Obi-Wan's smile was cold. "We have an exemption and a legal permit." He had, in fact, run into difficulties as a fifteen-year old apprentice, applying for an exemption permit for a mission to Hushan. The mission had almost been allocated to another team as a result: the issue had been that as a fifteen-year old, he was a minor and thus ineligible for a weapon permit by the laws of Hushan. It had caused Qui-Gon no small amount of difficulty, and more than once, his Master had referred to it as a bureaucratic nightmare. "It is, of course, quite the bureaucratic nightmare to apply for one."

"Jedi discretion is well known," Officer Talpho cut in, sharply. She was, of course, referring to the various pieces of legislation that established Jedi authority within limited constraints, as well as protection from restrictions otherwise put into place by galactic law. Security forces, for instance, were generally required to cooperate with ongoing Jedi investigations, although the political reality was…considerably more complicated. "The question is, why did you decide to take potshots on the campus?"

Tala Altarie repeated, flatly, "I want to speak to a lawyer."

Obi-Wan turned to Officer Talpho. "I'll call Iben Derriva," he said, lightly. "The man owes me a favour, I'm certain he can find someone."

"Do it," Officer Talpho said. They'd talked about this possibility, among others, when setting up the office. "Unless you have a lawyer in mind?"

"Not a Derriva," Tala Altarie sneered. "I want nothing to do with them."

"You can't have it both ways," Obi-Wan said, almost conversationally. He offered the faintest nudge in the Force: not enough to qualify as a Jedi mind trick, but enough to take some of the edge off her hardened suspicion. "You can't _both_ express confidence in the system by demanding a lawyer and at the same time, insist the Derriva are compromised."

"Why not?" Tala scoffed. "It's a false dichotomy: the legal system might be working, but it doesn't entail I have to trust every single legal representative on Naboo, particularly those who have enriched themselves for generations on it."

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. "Hardly," he countered. "The law _is_ the law. If we'd asked Androl Oden to come down and defend you, you might have a case. But the Derriva spend their time interpreting the law, not making it."

"And you think interpretations of a law can't be political?" Tala challenged. "Grow up, Jedi. You don't realise how ridiculous you sound, defending the sequestered elite of the system. So much for defending peace and justice."

"So explain it to me," Obi-Wan said, with another small nudge in the Force. "Explain to me how you think it's all broken and hopeless; explain to me how you think you're going to change things. Law on Naboo is still tangled with requirements of precedents: even the Derriva can't ignore that."

Tala laughed. "You think? The Derriva have their fingers dipped deep in the pot. Everyone knows they practically invited the Trade Federation onto Naboo, along with the rest of the Five. Probably looking to make a killing off the cortorsis. Sure, they're bound by precedent. Precedent that traditionally favours the wealthy uppercrust. The rest of us can go burn."

"Clearly not everyone," Obi-Wan said, dryly, "Since Dr. Talein seems to believe they were solely motivated by geopolitical factors and the presence of cortorsis, while Iben Derriva claims the Perdaé invited the Trade Federation in and helped them occupy Naboo by disarming the militia."

"Dr. Talein's in too deep to see how screwed the system is," Tala proclaimed. "And of _course_ Iben Derriva would say that: why would he admit to backing the Trade Federation? The Five _always_ think the Perdaé are behind everything—who are the Perdaé anyway? A bunch of narrow-minded morons who post a lot on the HoloNet, posture, and pretend to amount to something." She narrowed her eyes. "Even the sheep-herders are better at being patriots than the Perdaé."

"Yet you must surely realise your own logic applies to you," Obi-Wan replied, ruthlessly. "Of _course_ you would say that: why would you or the Perdaé admit to backing the Trade Federation?"

"I'm not with the Perdaé," Tala growled.

"You're with the Youngbloods," Obi-Wan said. It was not a question.

Tala Altarie's eyes narrowed; all of a sudden, she was once again actively hostile and suspicious. "I'm still waiting for my lawyer," she said. "You can't do this."

"Technically," Officer Talpho said, "The Jedi _can_."

"More Jedi abuse of power," Tala Altarie sneered.

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. "You seem to be rather misinformed," he said, mildly. "There has been, after all, an assassination attempt on the Queen. This makes the current investigation a Jedi investigation, and your Queen has permitted this. While your cooperation is requested, it does mean that I, at least, am not bound by the same restrictions Officer Talpho is. Which does put us in a rather awkward position, doesn't it?"

"Definitely," said Officer Talpho aloud. "I'm getting used to not asking questions, it seems."

"The question," Obi-Wan said, "Is whether you're involved in trying to assassinate the Queen, or whether you're just someone else's pawn. Personally, I'm starting to think the latter is the case. But then, you never really know, do you?"

* * *

Anakin looked up as Obi-Wan entered the maintenance room. His tunic was, by this point, stained by grease and thoroughly rumpled. "It's boring and I'm hungry," he announced.

Obi-Wan took a quick glance at his chrono. "Well, it _is_ getting late, so how about we adjourn to the street markets to get some food?" To sweeten the deal, he added, "You'll find that street food is markedly different from what you've been having so far. On some planets like Hushan, street food is an entire culture on its own."

"Whassat mean?" Anakin mumbled, falling in behind Obi-Wan.

"It means that their street food is exceptionally good—and rather different from what you'll find in the palace, or in cantinas or cafés. Sounds good?"

"Yeah," Anakin said, after a pause. "Is the street food on Theed any good?"

"According to the HoloNet and the Queen," Obi-Wan said, noticing how Anakin perked up at the mention of Queen Amidala, "It most certainly is. But nothing beats actual experimentation, so we should probably find one of the markets and try it out for ourselves."

"Wizard," Anakin said. He hid a yawn behind his sleeve. "We going, then?"

* * *

The Vasu Abrai market was, according to the HoloNet, one of the famous historical attractions of Theed, with a rich history going back to when Theed was first founded. Obi-Wan smiled and played the tourist, allowing Anakin to wander around, gawking at the brightly-coloured tiles of the market roofing, moving from stall to stall and buying a little of what was on offer.

From a stall manned by a Twi'lek, they picked up grilled, chewy skewers of what the Twi'lek confirmed was squid; from another stall, there were fish dumplings in a hot, savoury seaweed soup. Yet another stall sold chewy starch-cakes dipped and fried in a sweet sauce, and Anakin wolfed those down with reckless abandon, splattering sweet sauce in dark brown droplets on his tunic and all over his mouth.

"S'real good," he exclaimed, thankfully in-between bites. "This is one _wizard_ market."

"It's a protected site," Obi-Wan said, absently. "The government preserves it as an important part of Theed's heritage, from their early days as a fishing port." He finished off his starch-cakes and found a nearby trash reptacle for the cardboard bowl.

The market was vital; teeming with life and the Living Force. Obi-Wan could not help but smile at the thought of how Qui-Gon would've enjoyed the Vasu Abrai market—nor, indeed, how his Master had often taken time out on missions to enjoy the local sights. "We cannot always be rushing from one place to another, Padawan," Qui-Gon had said, then, when Obi-Wan had objected to the slow pace they were moving at. "It's just as important to know when to pause and take a deep breath as it is to know when to move quickly."

And on another mission to New Aspolon, couched in Qui-Gon's gentle mischief: "Even in the middle of a mission, Padawan—don't neglect to taste the pastries."

Anakin tugged at his sleeve at a fourth stall, selling stuffed pastries; Obi-Wan paid up: he still had a decent amount of credits, and then just enjoyed the sensation of hot salted egg oozing from the flaky buttered crust.

It was good to see Anakin so excited, he thought, and indeed, he felt some of that thrill of discovery, as if almost because of Anakin—even while the information he had obtained from Tala Altarie weighed on him.

He tried to set that heavy feeling aside, to simply focus on the beauty of the market; the old columns, the mosaiced tiles of the ceiling depicting gigantic fish, the scents of freshly-grilled seafood and pastries and all sorts of delights, even the gentle glow of the glowrods illuminating the place, set in recesses in the pillars.

His comlink signalled, and Obi-Wan looked about for a quiet corner, tapped Anakin on the shoulder, and firmly cut through the crowd until he reached that point of lull and then answered it.

"Kenobi," he said, crisply, choosing to leave the visuals off.

"_This is Plo Koon_," came the filtered voice of the Kel Dor Master. "_I have information you'll find important, Kenobi. We managed to slice the protections on Resnik's datapad._"

"Master Koon," Obi-Wan greeted, tersely, aware of Anakin's wide-eyed presence by his side; of the flash of sullen unhappiness that made itself visible on the boy's features. "What is it?"

"_Not on the comm_," Plo Koon said. "_Jedi channels are secure but this, this is big, Kenobi. Come back to the palace as soon as you'll can._"

"We'll be on our way immediately. Kenobi out." Obi-Wan flicked off his comlink.

Anakin said, "We have to go?" There was a plaintive note in his voice; Obi-Wan thought he could understand it. There were many different side-streets and arteries in the market they'd yet to explore, and no doubt Anakin'd been looking forward to going down each and every one of them.

He kept his tone light, "I'm afraid so. Business calls, Anakin. It's always good to take some time out on a mission to just explore and enjoy, but a Jedi must remember that business takes precedence. And believe me—it can and will crop up at the most embarrassing and inconvenient moments." Such as when Qui-Gon was half-undressed in a tailor's shop. The tale behind _that_ escapade, he would save for when Anakin was older.

"But then why even take time off at all?" Anakin whined.

"Because it's better to enjoy a little than not at all," Obi-Wan replied. "We're not droids, Anakin. And no matter what, even if our little excusion is cut off early, you've still had _some_ fun, right?"

Anakin nodded woefully.

"Can we come back?" he asked, as he trailed Obi-Wan yet again.

"We'll see," Obi-Wan said. He relented enough to add, "I can't promise anything, but we'll do our best, alright?"

"'Kay," Anakin said.

* * *

_A/N: Whoosh. This story is not dead; I was struggling between day job, graduate school, and some issues with the Naboo economy that it took me months to work out a solution to. (Economics is not my strong suit - this is an understatement.) I have mixed feelings about this chapter, particularly since it was written before 2016, but then continuously edited._

_I'll say this: Tala Altarie, in retrospect, ends up reading like an attempt to explore what kinds of young revolutionaries (?) might arise in the Galaxy Far Far Away. We tend to see (in the EU and comics) action on the Jedi level and the Senate level. There's little attempt to explore activism or civil society within the Galaxy Far Far Away, or at least, not in terms of what this means for people who don't get to see things at the galactic level (and indeed, one might wonder if getting to that kind of perspective is a bit of a luxury.) Add to that the thought that not everyone must appreciate the Jedi - it's hard to believe the Jedi were universally liked, and the 'baby-napping' angle is a bit old. But throw in some anger at The System, the rampant corruption of it all, and then the Jedi immediately get implicated - either because they have the power to change things but choose to do nothing with it, or because they are consciously upholding a broken system._

_Frankly, this is not a super-nuanced treatment of that issue. I don't have plans for this to show up again, but you never know. The focus of this story is elsewhere, so this was more just a peripheral: a reminder that there are layers upon layers in Naboo politics (and this, of course, is a microcosm...) Otherwise, as I've been implying: Altarie got played. The question is, who did?_

_Thanks to all who reviewed, favved and switched on Story Alert!_

_-Ammaren_


	14. Victory Celebrations

**In All The World**

Summary: The story of how Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tamed each other, from Naboo to Anakin's early days at the Temple. Slow-building Anakin/Obi-Wan friendship.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Victory Celebrations**

Plo Koon jerked his head in a sharp nod of greeting as soon as Obi-Wan strode into the comm centre. "Kenobi," he rasped, through the breath mask. And then, "Skywalker."

"Uh. Hi," Anakin managed, and then, "Why're you using a breath mask? It's a breath mask, isn't it? And do you have _googgles?_"

"I'm from the planet Dorin," Plo Koon replied. "It's vastly different from worlds like this one, and if you ever visit, you yourself will need to don a breath mask—the atmosphere there has very little oxygen. My species cannot survive in oxygen-rich environments."

"Oh," Anakin said. "I didn't know that."

"There's much about the galaxy no one knows," Plo Koon replied, and turned to Obi-Wan. "Good news and bad news. My slicers've come through and cracked the datapad. The bad news is, this was topline O&amp;P protection. It's got a live link to the company and the moment their slicers figured something was going on, they wiped the datapad. We managed to pull some bits of data off the datapad, but not enough."

Obi-Wan fought back a flash of irritation. They'd done their best, after all. "What do we have, then? You mentioned it was big."

"See for yourself," Plo Koon said, and motioned to the screen of his data terminal.

Obi-Wan moved over and accessed the files, one by one. "Conversation logs," he mentioned, aloud. Plo Koon nodded.

"We know there was more than one assassin hired," the Kel Dor Master stated, as Obi-Wan pored over the garbled messages that had been retrieved. "Resnik had an accomplice."

"We already knew that, though," Obi-Wan pointed out. And then, "_Oh_."

"What?" Anakin demanded, craning his neck and trying to get a glimpse at the screen of the data terminal.

"Resnik hired an ordinary street thug," Obi-Wan said. "But that's not what this message here says. Here, he's telling his employer he won't wait for _their man_ to show up. Which means that someone _else_ was supposed to be in the palace that day, entirely apart from Resnik and his hireling."

Plo Koon nodded. "Perhaps it indicates a healthy amount of distrust," he stated. "Perhaps it indicates something more. What was the man meant to accomplish?"

"If he was meant to kill the Queen, then he didn't show up," Obi-Wan pointed out. "With the palace guard activated and converging on Captain Panaka and myself, the Queen would've been a sitting target for an accomplice."

"My thoughts exactly," Plo Koon acknowledged. "So what, then?"

"The library," Anakin piped up. The two grown Jedi whirled about to stare at him and he shrugged. "It's the only thing I can think of," he said. "I mean, the librarian said stuff was missing, right? Someone'd gone through the place like a grouchy eopie."

Plo Koon let out a chuff of laughter. "Out of the mouths of children," he said.

"But what?" Obi-Wan replied, not entirely convinced. "It fits well with our information, but what did the palace library have that was worth stealing from? And this would mean that—that Resnik was double-crossed?" He frowned, trying to imagine how the pieces came together. "Resnik hires someone to bring down security, imagining he will make a move on the Queen. He's told someone will show up, but the man does not do so—or Resnik grows impatient and proceeds with his assignment. But our mysterious figure _is_ there, and he uses that opportunity to break into the library and steal historical manuscripts? Hiring Arvol Resnik and brokering O&amp;P protection for a glorified heist doesn't make any sense at all."

"You said you thought Resnik was part of what went on with the library," Anakin pointed out.

"I know," Obi-Wan said. "I still think so. But parts of the picture still make no more sense than when we first started. The sort of historical manuscripts that the palace library would carry are indeed of value—but only to a very small circle of collectors, and likely those interested specifically in Naboo artefacts. In fact, I'd guess that whoever hired Resnik and arranged this all probably would end up with a net loss, even after selling those artefacts. I have the impression that we're chasing at the wind, here."

Plo Koon said, "We need an assessment of what was stolen."

"There are some difficulties, but the librarian is working on that."

"I'll have some people keep an eye on the antiquities markets," Plo Koon said. "It'll be good to see if anyone tries to fence documents that look like they might've come from the library." He shook his head. "Get some rest, Kenobi. We've all got a big day tomorrow."

Anakin looked questioningly at them.

"The parade," Obi-Wan said, meaningfully.

"Oh!" Anakin remembered, then. "Are we going to have to do anything big?"

"Just stand there and smile," Obi-Wan said. "You'll be fine."

* * *

It turned out that they didn't get to turn in as early as Obi-Wan had expected to. Although Anakin was yawning and visibly fatigued, there were still a number of people in the palace who needed to be satisfied, and who were extremely unhappy that the Jedi had been missing for most of the day.

Sio Bibble, the governor, was one of them; palace security had flagged him the moment Obi-Wan and Anakin returned to the palace, and he ambushed them almost the moment when they were done conversing with Plo Koon.

"Master Jedi," Sio Bibble greeted, all but cornering them in the comm centre. "Might I have a moment?"

Obi-Wan returned the greeting and turned at Anakin's half-concealed yawn. "Do you need to go to bed first, Anakin?"

"M'okay," Anakin mumbled, although the exhaustion from the day's events was beginning to catch up with him. He rubbed at his eyes. "I wanna listen."

So Obi-Wan turned back to Sio Bibble. "What can we do for you, Governor?"

"I just needed to cover a few details of the victory parade with you," the man replied. He consulted the datapad he was holding—he was probably running a personal organiser program on it, Obi-Wan thought.

The victory parade, Sio Bibble explained, was to be held in the afternoon. In addition, he murmured, perhaps the Jedi would be so kind as to walk among the people and to take part in some of the games…

"It's a festival, among many other things," Sio Bibble explained. "We've organised a series of games and events to celebrate the liberation of Theed. It'd mean a lot to the people of Theed if the heroes of Naboo were joining in the festivities."

"Ah," Obi-Wan said. "I understand. Of course, we will do so."

Sio Bibble nodded; he seemed a stern man, seldom given to smiling. "That will do, then. I'll have an aide guide you to your positions for the victory parade, but you're just meant to assume a position of honour beside the Queen."

"Ceremonial?" Obi-Wan asked.

"Yes."

"We will do so, then. Thank you for the information. It must be difficult, having to organise such a large celebration so soon after the Trade Federation's surrender."

Sio Bibble shook his head. "You have no idea, Master Jedi," he said, glumly. "It's a logistics nightmare, but it's extremely important. Particularly with us losing the Senator…" he seemed about to say something else, but trailed off.

Obi-Wan said, "I wasn't aware that the Chancellor occupied himself with planetary affairs."

Sio Bibble said, "When he's not on Coruscant, he does. Usually when the Senate isn't in-session. But it's unfortunate as his aide, Falce Valarin, typically helps with large planetside events like these, and he's a way with logistics. Otherwise, it's like herding a warren of womprats."

"What happened to Valarin?"

"Someone has to be acting Senator for Naboo," Sio Bibble pointed out. "He's taking over Palpatine's paperwork, and there's a decent chance the Queen will confirm his appointment as the Senator once the immediate fallout from the Trade Federation's illegal invasion is adequately dealt with. Capable man."

"So I see," Obi-Wan said. He thanked Sio Bibble again, and the governor showed himself out, wishing them a pleasant night.

"So we get to play games?" Anakin demanded, eagerly.

Obi-Wan laughed. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I believe we do."

* * *

It was not long ago, Obi-Wan reflected, as he watched Anakin sleep on, that he'd been Anakin's age: always hungry, always sleepy. Qui-Gon had laughed and indulged him; letting him sleep in for an extra few minutes, allowing him to nap on long flights between missions, and finding the strangest of places to grab a bite. Now, rising slightly before the sunrise was easy enough; he'd needed a night to encourage his body to adjust to the day-cycle of Naboo, but once his circadian rhythms had recalibrated themselves to Naboo time, his eyes'd blinked open a little before the pale dawn light was falling in through the windows of his room.

Anakin, though, was still fast asleep.

He could honestly look back on his experience as Qui-Gon's Padawan and say that he'd tried a wide variety of utterly strange foods, from the baked chollata tarts on Fughrio to the cheese-rolled dumplings with a bitter sauce on Tumban, and even a couple of grilled insects and soups dumped with so many spices that Obi-Wan's tongue'd gone fairly numb by the time he was done.

How did you reconcile that, the need to acknowledge that Anakin was still young, still growing, with the urgent need to incalcate Jedi discipline?

His mind wandered back to Anakin's outburst. It was increasingly obvious to Obi-Wan that Anakin carried a great deal of anger deep within him, and Obi-Wan simply wasn't sure where to begin to teach Anakin to deal with it.

_From the beginning, you must start. Nowhere else, there is._

It was one of Yoda's sayings, now, that echoed in his mind like the ripples from a fallen pebble. He had to start from the beginning, because there was no other way, no other option. If he didn't build Anakin's education from the same, solid foundations Obi-Wan had received in his own youth, Anakin would never be certain in handling his anger; would falter, when he most needed the Jedi teachings.

He could not fail Anakin, as a teacher. And he'd promised Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan's comlink signalled. He stepped quietly outside to the balcony to take the call, palming the door shut behind him so he didn't disturb Anakin's rest. "Kenobi," he said, briskly. He didn't recognise the displayed comm code.

"_Jedi Kenobi,"_ said an unfamiliar voice, and Obi-Wan belatedly remembered he'd left visual identification off and made the adjustments. At once, the fuzzy blue hologram of Ren Yvar was projected from his comlink. "_A pleasure to be speaking to you. The palace guard was thoughtful enough to provide me with your comm code."_

"So I see," Obi-Wan replied. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this conversation?"

Ren Yvar sighed. "_Jedi Kenobi,"_ he said, almost disappointedly, "_We need to talk."_

Obi-Wan glanced at his chrono. "I presume you'll be in Theed for the victory parade," he said, neutrally. "Rather difficult to have a celebration without members of the Five present."

"_Naturally,"_ Ren Yvar agreed, and now traces of the careless arrogance slipped back in. _"I'll request the palace guard allow us a meeting in the Orech Room, then. In about, say, an hour?"_

Obi-Wan thought about it. "An hour will be fine," he agreed, and Ren Yvar nodded his acknowledgement and terminated the call.

So, Obi-Wan thought, putting his comlink away. Word of his visit to a member of the Five had likely already begun to stir the hive. It was interesting that Yvar'd chosen to deal with him directly, but as he thought back to the Five's conversation with the Queen, it was the sort of person Ren Yvar had seemed to be: arrogant, yes, but also blunt and direct.

Which, at this point, suited Obi-Wan just fine.

* * *

The Orech Room was yet another of the many meeting rooms in the palace: opulent, but with a distinct air of disuse. When Obi-Wan walked into the room, he discovered why; it was a room with deep reds and ochres and umber tones, and a large painting took up most of the far wall, depicting a man brandishing a blaster pistol directly at a falling Gungan, his foot planted firmly on the body of yet another fallen Gungan, with a Naboo army at his back and the Gungan forces only beginning to rout.

At the very edges of the painting, the artist had added hints of water, suggesting what would later befall the Gungans: a retreat to the deep bubble-cities, where the Naboo had only left them alone when the technological costs of hunting down the remnants of the Gungans had run too high.

And there, they'd grown again, all this while fostering a deep grudge against the Naboo. Until now, and that was why it had been no insignificant thing; an elected Queen of the Naboo kneeling down before the Gungans to beg for their aid, and Obi-Wan knew, immediately, that it was something that was dangerous to speak of. Most of the Naboo had forgotten but a number would chafe at the idea of kneeling, of _begging_ the Gungans. The Queen had been crafty in spinning it as a tale of Gungan graciousness, with only a tentative hint of Naboo humiliation.

"Jedi Kenobi," Ren Yvar greeted, strolling into the room as if he owned it. A man; tall and silent shadowed him—likely a bodyguard, from the uniform he wore, and the way he scanned the room, instantly looking for anything suspicious and for the possible exits.

"Ren Yvar," Obi-Wan returned the greeting. He glanced at the man, careful to keep his expression as unreadable as possible. Ren Yvar, Obi-Wan reminded himself, had _chosen_ his ground, had chosen this meeting room for a reason. Knowing that reason would help Obi-Wan put a context to Ren Yvar's so far hazy motives.

"I see you had no trouble locating the Orech Room," Ren Yvar said. He strolled up to the painting, with the air of a man admiring a piece of priceless art. "Did you know the painter who did this was Dasca Valenti?"

Obi-Wan frowned, and inspected the painting more closely. "My impression," he hedged, "Was that Valenti preferred landscapes to historical battles, and not one so throughly shrouded in folklore like General Orech forcing the Gungans into the oceans at Queen Faraé's orders."

Ren Yvar laughed. "Of course he did," he said. "He loved his landscapes—the northlands, the Lake Country, the swamps and fens, the roiling oceans, all of that. But he loved his history too, and this work by late Valenti is a classic, if little-appreciated."

"I see," Obi-Wan said, quietly, hiding his distaste. And when he did that; when he shoved past the part of him that disliked this posturing, that saw how empty it was when soldiers fought over pieces of land in the name of nations and were swallowed up by pyroclastic flows; when he looked past that, he saw where the subtle strokes that deemed this a Valenti were; the way the background was plasma-charred beyond recognition, the transparent sheen to the waters that marked Valenti's technique with layering strokes to depict water, and suddenly, he realised _why_ this was a Valenti.

You were meant to feel it: the arrogance, this worm of unease as you saw what was meant to be a heroic moment in Naboo history, Orech's face haloed in victorious light, a cruel cast to his features; the Gungans broken but unyielding, the masses gathering behind Orech akin to a mob rather than an army, and he wondered why he hadn't seen it before.

_Your focus determines your reality,_ Qui-Gon always said. It was one of those Jedi teachings that seemed strange, the first time you encountered it. Reality seemed concrete; unshiftabe, unyielding to the ideas of beings. Stone and duracrete cared nothing for your focus, your attitudes. If you thought that a durasteel wall would yield to you, it wouldn't. Fools ran at durasteel walls and bashed their heads on it and bled.

And yet: didn't focus matter? A typical Padawan exercise involved running at a durasteel wall, taking a few steps up it, and flipping through the air to land lightly on your feet, lightsaber held in a combat-ready position. And when you focused, when you thought about it and listened to the wall (and it was really one of the silliest things Obi-Wan'd been asked to do, at that time, until he'd quickly learned that Jedi training would ask you to do any number of silly and humiliating things and if you couldn't put aside your pride, you'd never make a good Jedi), you realised the wall _wasn't_ solid. It wasn't unyielding duracrete; it was that and more. In the Force, approached in the right way, with the right focus, the wall was a series of particles; gaps held together tightly in the Force. The wind howled through it; the wind was the Force and you realised in that moment that you were all one in the Force: Jedi, durasteel, and wall.

It was the easiest thing to stride up the wall, to feel it yield against your feet, propelling you in a graceful flip to land, lightsaber already out and ignited. As with the simplest exercises and teachings, once performed physically by bored Initiates, you quickly learned that there were layers of complexity they took on once you became a Padawan and then a senior Padawan.

The painting was like that: he'd seen it one way, and when his focus shifted, so did the painting; now instead of a depiction of Naboo glory and nationalistic pride, he saw a subtle mockery, and wondered if the unease either interpretation stirred was why the Orech Room remained mostly unusued.

Ren Yvar's eyes flicked over to him and his lips curled in a knowing smirk. "Which Valenti do you prefer?"

"Does it matter?" Obi-Wan wanted to know. "I'm fairly certain you didn't comm me to have a conversation on the works of Dasca Valenti."

"Perhaps I did," Ren Yvar replied. "There are some generals who think you can tell a great deal about an enemy by studying the way they react to works of art. If anything, Valenti is a mirror; a distorted one, to be sure, but an assortment of strokes on canvas tells you more about the perceptions, the prejudices—the mind—of the one studying his works, than about the painting itself."

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. "_Are_ we opponents, then?" he asked, with studied indifference.

"Of course we are," Ren Yvar said, dismissively. "Enemies, I've come to realise, are far more reliable than allies." He clasped his hands behind his back. "Besides, let's agree to set aside any notion that we trust each other right now, or believe that we're on the same side."

"Why then the meeting?" Obi-Wan pressed. "If not to reassure me that you're perfectly concerned for the Queen's safety, then what?"

Ren Yvar shrugged. "I'd come down to Theed for the victory celebrations, in any case," he pointed out, turning away slightly from the painting. "It seemed a preferable choice to seek you out rather than to wait for you to find _me_. The question is, what do _you_ want, Jedi Kenobi?"

"The same as with Iben Derriva or any of the Five," Obi-Wan said. "I want answers."

"The Queen's assassination," Ren Yvar said, very softly. The Force murmured a warning to Obi-Wan; he kept an eye on Yvar's security, out of the corner of his eye. The man stood in a posture most security officers would recognise as being one of watchful alertness; weight centred, hands resting before him, but with blaster pistol in easy access. He was carefully keeping away from the deep maroon carpet. "You were there, of course. You heard our assurances."

"Assurances come cheap," Obi-Wan countered. "I imagine that a man who distrusts allies might understand that."

Ren smirked. "Oh, of course," he agreed. "So what now, Jedi Kenobi?"

Obi-Wan said, "It's been a bad season for the homefarms."

Ren Yvar said nothing. He had gone very still, those dark eyes intent on Obi-Wan. "Bad seasons come and go," he replied. "What of it?"

"Bad seasons," Obi-Wan continued, "That go back to about five years. Reports of rustspore, of the wet seasons drowning chunks of the harvest…these things ought to take their tolls on profit, regardless of insurance." These hadn't been in Mace Windu's datastick; they'd been in the general briefing material on Naboo Obi-Wan had internalised before he and Qui-Gon had set out to negotiate a truce. It swam back into consciousness now: comments that the Agri-Corps had been sent to Naboo to conduct a survey about the rustspore outbreak, and So-Ha Ulin had commented in her report that the recent wet seasons hadn't been doing Naboo's agriculture any favours.

"The problem with that picture," Ren Yvar said, very deliberately, and for a moment, his eyes flicked to the security officer, who moved over to the doorway, enough to grant them some semblance of privacy, "Is that it presumes the Yvar would nevertheless gain from Trade Federation occupation; much less from indulging Nute Gunray's absurd obsession with making the Queen pay for revealing him to be an embarrassingly incompetent leader. Tell me, Kenobi. Do you know the average price for shuura fruit on Bandomeer?"

He'd named, perhaps unknowingly, a planet Obi-Wan knew well, for he had once almost thought himself consigned to the Agri-Corps on Bandomeer. "There's no shuura fruit to be had on Bandomeer," he replied, and Ren Yvar nodded, a trace of that smirk reappearing.

"Exactly," Ren Yvar said. "It's that simple; surely you must've seen it. Our produce largely reaches planetary markets—and markets in the Chommell sector. We don't ship to Bandomeer, for instance, because there's no market for shuura fruit on Bandomeer. The Trade Federation represents the worst sort of potential alliance: there are simply no additional markets they could allow us to exploit. Oh, perhaps we'd have an easier time selling shuura fruit to planets with a substantial Naboo diaspora, like Feranti, or even Alderaan, and Coruscant always trades in produce but beyond that? That's a lot for pitiable financial gain."

Obi-Wan took a step back, onto the carpet, turning away from the painting. He said, "That's somewhat disingenuous."

"A bold remark."

"I would think a series of bad seasons would render Trade Federation connections a tempting option," Obi-Wan pointed out. "If only in outsourcing some of the agriculture to more stable worlds such as Verfleur, which have standing first-access treaties with the Trade Federation."

Ren Yvar fell silent.

"Perhaps even a joint venture," Obi-Wan thought, aloud. "Ways of diversifying your production, in order to spread out the risks of bad seasons eating into your profit margins."

"Perhaps," Ren Yvar agreed, at last. He offered Obi-Wan a thin smile. "Of course, the Trade Federation would need reason to find such an arrangement compelling. The benefits for the Yvar are clear; less so for the Trade Federation."

Obi-Wan said nothing.

"We are powerful," Ren said. "But we don't have all that much influence. Unfortunately. You know as well as I do that the Trade Federation would have demanded we serve up Naboo to them on a platter, in order to be able to leverage on their existing networks and capital."

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. "You expect me to believe that?" he asked, incredulous. "You, a member of the Five?"

Ren rolled his eyes; a surprisingly casual gesture, Obi-Wan observed. "Don't give me that," he said, bluntly. "Obtuseness doesn't become you, Jedi Kenobi. You were there. The Five are extremely influential but hardly the only source of power on Naboo. And if the Yvar had been tempted to sell our planet out, the Trade Federation would obviously be shrewd enough to realise we are but one family among Five. They would've needed to cut deals with at least three of the Five, including the Ersken."

"So you're claiming the Ersken are first among equals."

Ren affected a careless shrug, but the tension that lined his posture suggested it was anything but. "Fortunes change," he said. "Who can tell where the Ersken will end up?"

"Why do they have so much influence now?" Obi-Wan asked. "The highland vineyards are surely just as badly affected by the bad seasons as the homefarms. And rustspore is notoriously difficult to eradicate—whether from vines, or from shuura fruit."

Was that a hint of grudging respect in Ren's eyes?

"Investments," Ren said, curtly. "They chose wisely."

"How?" Obi-Wan questioned.

The Yvar heir paused, sizing Obi-Wan up. Obi-Wan had no sense that the man was attempting to dissemble, but he had no illusions about how cooperative Ren Yvar was really inclined to be. Perhaps, however, the question did not seem to blatantly infringe Yvar interests, for presently, the man shrugged once more and said, "Shipping contracts. The Ersken have been buying out the contracts to ship kassoti from Rori to the plasma refineries, and investing heavily in the shipping industry. They own the majority of the shares in Faraé Shipping Lines."

Obi-Wan blinked. _That_ hadn't been in the briefing materials, and his surprise must've been evident, for a trace of that cocky arrogance was back in Ren Yvar's gestures, his crooked grin as he studied the Jedi. "Didn't expect that, did you, Jedi Kenobi?"

Obi-Wan tucked his hands into the long sleeves of his robe, seeking to buy a little time by the gesture to think. "No," he admitted, opting for honesty. It was, in any case, rather too late to pretend to be holding on to some scrap of knowledge. "Why is that?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Ren Yvar said.

"And the Queen allowed this?"

"You may not think much of it, but the bad seasons spread. We fell on hard times," Ren Yvar replied. "Mining kassoti is profitable, but Naboo consumes a large portion of local produce. Food had to be imported; as the bad seasons dragged on, the Trade Federation started to lean on the agricultural worlds to sell us produce at higher prices. Kassoti miners were among the worst-hit, and they sold off their mining rights to the Ersken."

"Who," Obi-Wan guessed, shrewdly, "Took over the rights and set them back to mining, but now they make even less credits from this."

"Of course," Ren Yvar said. "Clever, you'll have to admit."

It was clever, Obi-Wan agreed, silently, if you thought nothing of the suffering of beings; if you thought it acceptable to exploit desperation. But another thought struck him, then. "Where did the Ersken accumulate the capital to buy out the shipping contracts? You mentioned they only began buying out the contracts when the bad seasons first hit."

"They took a loan," Ren Yvar said. He fidgeted with the ornate clasp of his belt. "As far as I know, they took out a loan with the InterGalactic Banking Clan."

Obi-Wan blinked. A deep and rich network of ties, of money, and of common interests, greed, and probably a touch of corruption bound together the Commerce Guild, the InterGalactic Banking Clan, and the Trade Federation. Ren Yvar surely understood the significance of what he was saying. "And how did this make the Ersken influential?"

Ren Yvar smiled. "Cortosis."

"Regulation 1751782 blocks the development of the existing cortorsis mines," Obi-Wan pointed out, recalling the conversation with Dr. Pallié Talein. "And the contracts for cortorsis mining and kassoti mining are separate."

Ren Yvar dismissed that with an impatient wave of his hand. "Details," he murmured. "To be fair, the Ersken don't own _all_ the kassoti rights. The Miner's Union fought back. But the Ersken are a sizeable player, and the Miner's Union doesn't like sharing."

Obi-Wan translated that comment: if the Outer Rim Mining Concern wanted the kassoti miners out, they'd have to deal with the Ersken, who held a chunk of the contracts. But then there were two forces in this picture, tugging in different directions. One of them tugged the Ersken towards the commercial giants of the galaxy; where the Ersken had something the Outer Rim Mining Concern wanted, and the Outer Rim Mining Concern had something the Ersken wanted.

Access to extra capital.

The other force tugged the Ersken _away_ from the commercial giants; the unholy alliance of the Outer Rim Mining Concern, the Commerce Guild, the InterGalactic Banking Clan and the Trade Federation. If the Ersken wanted to retain control of the kassoti mines, then they would have to be prepared to fight off the advances from the Outer Rim Mining Concern. This would put them on opposite sides with the Trade Federation.

Obi-Wan sighed, quietly. And this didn't even include the possibility that the Ersken were deep in debt—and the Trade Federation had used that as leverage, somehow. _But surely Ren Yvar would know, if that were the case,_ he thought, and then chided himself for that. He would have to speak to Ki-Adi-Mundi about the issue.

"What are you thinking, Jedi Kenobi?" Ren Yvar asked. Obi-Wan wondered if there was the barest hint of a taunt in the other man's voice.

He raised an eyebrow and turned aside. "It is a complex picture you're painted for me."

Ren Yvar nodded, stepping forward to join Obi-Wan. "The best paintings are," he said, and for that moment, Obi-Wan sensed they weren't talking about the state of affairs on Naboo any longer.

Out of the corner of his eye, Obi-Wan noticed that Yvar had left a scattering of bright reddish-orange dirt; stark against the deep maroon of the carpet.

* * *

Laughter and celebration filled the streets of Theed. Anakin—now wide-awake, having scarfed down a hasty breakfast and sluiced water through his hair—gawked at everything, from the tumblers, to the various stalls redolent with the mingled aromas of a dozen different foods, and the various games being set-up.

"Oh! Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan!" Anakin cried out, tugging at his sleeve. Obi-Wan plastered an indulgent smile on his face—he wasn't altogether fond of this crowd; it had always been Qui-Gon, with his connection to the Living Force, who had basked in the company of his fellow beings—and turned.

"What is it, Anakin?" he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. Anakin didn't deserve to have Obi-Wan's feelings on crowds unleashed on him.

He'd either succeeded, or the boy was positively ebullient, because Anakin enthused, "D'you see that what is that it looks wizard—"

"Anakin, slow down—" Obi-Wan began, until he realised the boy was staring adoringly at an ice-cream vendor. The woman flashed them a grin; gap-toothed, with strands of greying hair escaping her braids.

"Care to try some street ice-cream?" she asked. "You've never had _proper_ ice-cream until you've tried one from a street vendor."

Obi-Wan'd heard this sales pitch before, on at least a hundred different worlds, but they had time to kill, and Anakin had clearly been sold as she dexterously manipulated the long-handled scoop, rolling chunks of ice cream into balls and then manoeuvring those into crunchy wafer-cones.

He paid up for two ice-creams (because why not, Obi-Wan thought, shortly) and then Anakin gasped—annoyance mingled with surprise and delight as she handed him the cone, appeared to deposit the compacted ball of ice-cream and abruptly rolled her wrists, sweeping the scoop away—and the ice-cream with it.

"Hey!" Anakin exclaimed. "How did you do that?"

The vendor winked, and appeared to relent, only to snatch the ice-cream ball away again at the last moment.

Obi-Wan very carefully hid his laughter. A flash of memory, then. The market on Hushan had been no different, and he had been so young. And Qui-Gon had stood there, and watched, and laughed, in his rich, deep voice…

"Obi-Wan?"

Anakin stood, frowning up at him, ice-cream smeared on his mouth. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," Obi-Wan said. He looked down at the ice-cream in his hand, and realised he had no idea what he'd ordered at all. He licked it, absently. Green tea. That had been Qui-Gon's favourite, he realised, and for no reason, tears prickled his eyes.

He couldn't go on like this, he knew. Couldn't go on as if he was fragile—continuously shattering and not-shattering at those unexpected moments; those small moments that drove needles into his heartbreak.

"It's good," Anakin enthused, apparently appeased by Obi-Wan's verbal response. "Hey, do they have this on Coruscant? This is _wizard_. How do they make it so cold? It hurts at first, like there's some sort of explosion going on in your brain, but once you get used to it…"

"Freezers," Obi-Wan said, absently. Of course Anakin'd never had ice-cream before, not as a slave on Tatooine…

He couldn't say why the idea offended him so. "Here." A tad roughly, he thrust his mostly-untouched ice-cream into Anakin's free hand.

"You sure about this, Obi-Wan?" Anakin frowned up at him. "You don't have any…"

"It's alright," Obi-Wan said. He tried a gentle smile. "Just enjoy it while it lasts, Anakin. It'll melt soon if you don't eat it."

"Yikes!" Anakin yelped, and immediately started in on the new ice-cream, alternating between both of them. "This one's weird, Obi-Wan."

"You don't like it?"

Anakin appeared to give the matter serious thought. "Nah," he decided. "It's good. Just…weird. Different."

"It's green tea. Qui-Gon's favourite."

"Huh," Anakin said, through a mouthful of ice-cream. "You ate this with him all the time?"

"Sometimes," Obi-Wan said, thinking of a long-ago market on distant Hushan.

* * *

There was so much to _do_, Anakin thought, gleefully, a spring in his step. He thought Obi-Wan'd looked a little distant—he'd had on that sad and unapproachable face again, what Anakin privately referred to as his Qui-Gon face. He didn't know why; just that he'd always seen that expression on Obi-Wan's face, especially when Mister Qui-Gon was mentioned.

Then, Obi-Wan seemed to withdraw into himself, shutting everything out. Even Anakin.

Anakin didn't like it. So he laughed at the tumblers, and tugged at Obi-Wan's sleeve and generally played up his joy and excitement—and it wasn't even a lie, really—trying to see if it could be infectious, if he could _make_ Obi-Wan enjoy the street festival.

It worked, sort of.

Obi-Wan smiled tentatively as they played a strange game that involved scooping up sewn cloth balls with their hands and tossing them and catch them, following a set pattern. Anakin was surprised to find that they were both good at it; he supposed it was the Podracing, at least for him. And hadn't Mister Qui-Gon said something about Jedi reflexes?

People didn't throng them, not quite. But it seemed as if word had spread through the crowd, of who they were, and the people of Theed gathered around everytime they stopped somewhere, sometimes to watch and whisper to themselves; sometimes to clasp Obi-Wan's hand briefly in thanks, or to bend down to thank Anakin.

Some stall owners wouldn't hear of accepting anything for their food—the man selling fruit pies had been one of them, but Obi-Wan had insisted, pressing the appropriate credits into his hand.

He liked it, Anakin admitted. It made him feel all warm and glowy inside, being made much of and fussed over, and he wondered why Obi-Wan seemed to dislike the adulation so much. It was nice, having people call him the Hero of Naboo and tell him how thankful they were he blew up the Droid Control Ship.

Much better than being treated like a piece of furniture or equipment, just because he was a slave.

But he wasn't a slave, not any longer, and Anakin resolved he would never be a slave, ever, ever again. He would learn everything Obi-Wan had to teach him, and more. He would become so powerful that no one would ever chain him up, implant transmitters in his body, or hurt Shmi or any of the other slaves again.

* * *

The victory parade, Obi-Wan'd explained quietly to Anakin as they stood there and smiled and _smiled_, was not really for their benefit at all, but more for the benefit of their Gungan allies. "There's a lot of bad blood between the Naboo and the Gungans," he commented, keeping his voice low. "By honouring them, the Queen seeks to ease some of the hard feelings, both among her people and among the Gungans. Hopefully, it'll take."

Anakin nodded, and tried not to fidget, appear restless, or unduly excited, but it was awfully _hard_ to do that when his leg itched after lots of standing still with his hands clasped in front of him, and with Naboo starfighters screaming triumphantly overhead in formation, looping about again and leaving tangled vapour trails in their wake as they streaked across clear blue skies.

"Did you see _that?"_ he whispered excitedly to Obi-Wan as the starfighters executed a sharp series of turns that should've had them smashing straight into each other, but the formation evened out, with no stragglers.

"Yes," Obi-Wan said, and Anakin had the distinct impression that the older man was trying very hard not to roll his eyes. "Yes, Anakin, I did."

The Gungans, Anakin supposed, were pretty big on the honour part too: Gungans marched in the streets of Theed for the first time _ever_ ("They've never, ever set foot in Theed," Obi-Wan'd explained, a while ago), and to a crowd that, despite being somewhat apprehensive, had settled into a celebratory, festive mood and was cheering them, roaring for them.

Boss Nass and Jar Jar rode on fambaa beasts in the centre of the formal procession; the latter, Anakin was tickled to notice, was waving to the crowd everywhere.

Petals drifted down from the sky, and Anakin blinked as one fell right in front of him.

"They've got to be really busy, dropping this," he muttered.

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, as if to say, _You think?_ Still, as always, Anakin found his eyes drawn to Padmé, radiant in pure white ceremonial robes. Her smile widened just a little as they glanced at each other, and he felt his heart stutter, just for a moment, in his chest.

A man Obi-Wan'd named the governor of Theed, Sio Bibble, stood slightly behind the Queen, holding a polished, transparent glass globe, glowing brightly with violet light.

"What _is_ that?" Anakin whispered. "Are they giving him a toy globe?"

Obi-Wan glanced sternly at him, though he noticed the man's lips had twitched. "It's the Globe of Peace—a very important artefact to the Naboo. I'll tell you the story behind it later."

"How do you _know_ all of this?" Anakin wanted to know.

"I read," came the dry response.

Letting out a quiet sigh, Anakin stood, and smiled, and smiled, and tried very hard not to tug at the new braid he sported. It was important, Obi-Wan had said, tentatively, and even though they couldn't quite get him to do it the traditional way until they were back on Coruscant, they'd have to make do for now. So they tied his hair back in a very short nerf-tail, and Obi-Wan knelt before him and braided it, with the quick, graceful movements of someone who must've done it countless times, throughout his life, who could've done it in his sleep.

And he looked so, so sad, as he did, that Anakin couldn't help but say, "It reminds you of him, doesn't it?"

Obi-Wan had drawn a long breath but did not falter in his braiding as he said, "Everything reminds me, Anakin."

The words hung, like that, in the air between them. Anakin was not sure what to say. Eventually, Obi-Wan tied off the braid with a simple blue thread and said, "You'll learn how to do this for yourself, when we get back to Coruscant."

"Okay," Anakin had said. He touched the braid, lightly. "This is important, I guess."

"Very," Obi-Wan said.

And that was that.

* * *

_A/N: Well, it's been a tiring couple of weeks, but here, have an update. As I'm reviewing my chapter buffer, I've noticed that this part/section of the story skews heavily towards Obi-Wan. This is slightly unintentional, as while young Anakin can get into a lot of trouble, the investigation is really being driven by Obi-Wan. This looks likely to balance out, however, with how much the Temple arc will favour Anakin, since it focuses a bit more on his settling in, though there'll still be things for Obi-Wan to do, of course._

_At this point, we're on Chapter Fourteen: my projected end of the Naboo/Theed arc is at least Chapter Twenty-One, or Twenty-Two. As warned on the tin, this story is extremely slow-building, and not all the loose ends will be tied in a neat bow where the Jedi are concerned, although a canny reader will be able to deduce what has happened.  
_

_Thanks to all who reviewed, favved, or switched on Story Alert!_

_-Ammar_


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